


Toe to Toe

by standbygo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Dance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ballet, Crossover, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, First Time, Happy Ending, M/M, Shower Sex, Slow Burn, Spies & Secret Agents, White Nights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2020-02-29 06:33:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 44,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18773197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is an international ballet star. After a favour for his brother goes south, he finds himself trapped in a foreign country, with a man named John Watson who could be an enemy... or an ally.A crossover of sorts with White Nights, the 1985 film with Mikhail Baryshnikov and Gregory Hines.





	1. Le Jeune Homme et la Mort

**Author's Note:**

> While this fic touches some of the major plot points of White Nights, other plot points have been changed to suit Sherlock, or to suit my whims. Other times I just careen off in all directions. 
> 
> Many thanks to @besina and @shamelessmash for their super duper useful beta skills.
> 
> Strictly speaking, this is not a WIP - it's finished, and I will post weekly while I edit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter describes Sherlock dancing a ballet where his character commits suicide. It is simulated using stagecraft, but if this distresses you please feel free to skip this chapter. Plot will start up in earnest next chapter.

There was nothing like it in the world.

Nothing like the moment when the chaos of backstage, the whirling bedlam of dancers and crew and stage managers vanishing. Nothing like the silence that suddenly fell, when one could hear nothing except for the restless hush of the audience on the other side of the thick, red velvet curtains. Nothing like the moment when everyone in the company slipped into the wings, leaving one all alone on stage. Nothing like the soft dark of a blackout, with a faint glow of blue lights from the prop tables backstage, and the bare inch of light leaking from the gap between the curtain and the stage floor. Nothing like the collective subconscious sigh of the audience when the curtains rose.

There was nothing like it, and it was everything to Sherlock – his drug, his addiction, his world.

He imagined the audience’s first sight of him: laying on a stark iron bed, his limbs draped in lassitude over the sides of the bed, aligning with the drape of the sheets. One thin arm, nearly as pale as the sheets, lifting a cigarette to his lips.

The cigarette’s tang ran along the edges of his tongue, and he let the smoke trickle slowly from his lips. He let the last of the smoke puff out in a gust on the last beat of the bar and was on his feet on the first beat of the next.

 _Le Jeune Homme et la Mort_ is a modern ballet, and Roland Petit’s choreography reflected the modernist style of the mid-forties: sharp, jarring movements, off the standard beat of the music. If dance were music, this choreography would be atonal, but the music was Bach’s _Bassacaglia and Fugue in C Minor_ , which soothed the sharp corners of the piece.

This was one of Sherlock’s signature pieces. It was short, only seven minutes and thirteen seconds if the conductor was doing it correctly, but allowed him to show off his best qualities as a dancer – his physique, his flexibility, his jumps, his physical strength, his acting. It could be performed on any stage, with a minimal set, and the themes were universal – passion, anguish, unrequited love, pain, desperation, death. All the great male dancers had performed it – Nureyev, Baryshnikov – and when Sherlock first danced it, his reputation and place with that elite group was established.

He crossed downstage right, prepared, ran and made his first jump to upstage left. Sherlock loved all aspects of ballet, but jumps were his favourite. He had worked on his strength in his legs for hours in the rehearsal hall every day for years, and now his leaps were filled with explosive power. He loved the feeling of ascending, of that moment in the air when he was at his peak, where he could hesitate for a moment, free of the pull of gravity.

He landed, absorbing the shock through the bend of his legs. Almost immediately he jumped again, straight up, using momentum to spin a complete circle twice before landing. He could hear gasps from the audience. It made him want to smirk, thinking of what was in store for them, that he was only just beginning; but he kept his face framed in lines of the grief and ennui of his character.

The young man he was portraying was supposed to be an artist, tormented by thoughts of death. He is visited by a beautiful woman, who tempts him, taunts him, and then spurns him, and encourages him to commit suicide. A modernist romantic tragedy. But the story didn’t matter to Sherlock; it never mattered to him. All that mattered was the dance.

As if in a daze, he stepped onto a chair, and then onto its back, allowing his weight gracefully tip the chair over. He landed running, and leapt over a second chair, clearing it easily. Sherlock’s heart rate began to rise with the exertion, and he felt the prickle of his first sweat. He would be wet through and exhausted by the end of the piece.

He rolled his head as though in agony, hearing the quiet pop of his spine aligning. He moved back to the chair and sat on it backwards, one hand on the back of the chair and one on the seat. He channelled all his strength into his arms and lifted himself up, his haunches several inches above the chair. Then he showed the character’s anguish through contortions of his legs and feet, gradually returning to the seat of the chair. He allowed himself a brief moment of relaxation, emptying his body of all tension, slumped over the chair.

He heard Florence making her entrance behind him. He didn’t like her particularly, but she was a good dancer, and didn’t complain about the long hours of rehearsal like many others he had worked with. In the end, that was all that matters – whether she could do the work.

As she entered his frame of vision, he snapped his head up to her. For a moment, he deduced her by habit (small lunch of fruit and cheese, no dinner, blister on right big toe) before bringing himself back to the moment. She caressed his cheek, then turned away. The entire second movement of the piece was filled with the push/pull of passion: the pull of desire and eroticism and temptation, then the push of rejection; emotional manipulation in dance.

Sherlock enacted the part to the full, but if he was honest with himself, he didn’t understand it. Why would a grown man – even as young a man as the character was meant to be – allow himself to be treated that way? If it were him, Sherlock would have walked away from the first rejection, throwing a barbed comment behind him, and be content with never seeing the woman again. Much less go to the extreme of self-sacrifice.

Nonetheless, that was the way Jean Cocteau had written the story, the way Roland Petit had choreographed it, and it was Sherlock’s duty to dance it to the best of his ability.

He knelt at her feet imploring while she stood tall above him, _en pointe_. Then in one quick, sharp movement, she kicked him in the face; or rather appeared to, her pointe shoe whistling past his ear. He rolled backwards, extending his legs straight up. This was the athletic highlight of the piece. He allowed his legs to drop excruciatingly slowly, using every muscle in his arms and core to keep him balanced and control the movement. He heard gasps from the audience, but did not allow his satisfaction to distract him. He maintained his control until his legs touched the floor, then released carefully, muscle by muscle.

His body was now screaming at him, his left calf cramping, every blister on his feet sharp with pain and no doubt bleeding, but he had mastery over his body.

He heard the scrape of the chair pulled to centre stage, just in front of him, and allowed Florence to pull him to his feet. His body now loose and lax, he slumped over the chair. She lifted him by the hair and directed his attention to the noose hanging at the back of the stage. Then in a flurry of movement, she pushed him over, chair and all, tossed her hair, and exited.

The piece was in its emotional climax now. Alone again on the stage, Sherlock embodied the young man’s indecision and agony, throwing chairs, dragging the heavy table across the room, throwing himself to the ground. Then he froze, and allowed the audience to see the terrible decision being made.

He stood on a chair under the noose. This was probably the most technically difficult part of the performance, and it wasn’t dance at all. He had to put his head into the noose, while secretly attaching the harness that would protect him from actual harm, without the audience seeing. Fortunately he had practiced this over and over again with the safety department head, and he felt the harness click silently into place. Then he pushed the chair over and let himself fall.

He gave his weight over to the harness, allowing himself to hang loosely, while trying to slow his breathing. Nothing was more distracting for a death scene then the performer’s diaphragm heaving for breath.

He heard the musical cue for Florence to re-enter, wearing the death mask, and for the set lift away to reveal the night scene of bohemian Paris.  From here it was easy: the harness lowered him to the ground on Florence’s command, and she removed the skull mask and placed it on his face. Then a slow walk through the set as the music climaxed.

The lights faded to black, and the applause roared over Sherlock’s head like a wave. As soon as the curtain fell, he removed the mask, handing it to a stagehand, then crossed down centre to await his curtain call. Toby was there, his arm held high, ready to page the curtain; Toby had been the stage manager at the Royal for thirty years, and knew exactly how to judge the right time to open the curtain, at the absolute peak of the audience’s applause.

Then Toby lowered his hand, the curtain peeled back, and Sherlock stepped through. A bright spotlight hit his chest, and the thunderous noise from the audience crescendoed. Sherlock stood for a moment, allowing the drug of adulation and admiration to soak into his pores, then he bowed humbly.

Back in the dressing room, he tossed the bottle of champagne out of the ice bucket and stuck his feet in. The cold was agony and a relief at once.

“How’s the tibia?” asked Mrs. Hudson. “Do you need to see Doctor Wiggins?”

“I’m fine,” he said shortly. He could feel the burn of his leg muscles now; he needed to stretch out and cool down; he needed to drink water; he needed the noise and clamour outside his dressing room to go away. He closed his eyes.

“Do you want to go to the closing night party, or straight to the hotel?”

Sherlock tipped his head back and closed his eyes. He didn’t need to answer, Mrs. Hudson knew already. She was just asking for the sake of asking.

They were leaving in the morning for Tokyo, for a production of _Giselle_ there. He never allowed himself to be sentimental about a piece, once it was finished. It was always on to the next: the next production, the next flight, the next city. The next costume fitting, the next rehearsal hall. The next piece of choreography to challenge him and for him to master. The next scene. The next solo. The next plie. The next breath. Next next next.

He let the exhaustion wash over him with the noise of the applause still in his ears.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link to Baryshnikov dancing the piece in question, from White Nights, the film that this fic is inspired by:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F9vttbubuHM&t=61s  
> Unfortunately the end is cut off.  
> Here’s the full piece, with Rudolph Nureyev and Zizi Jeanmaire. It doesn’t have the finale I describe here, that’s from the Baryshnikov version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aDCNmD-dvq4&index=11&t=0s&list=PL5qf7zxCk2JBzIwfMCiRgY8UOA0ExQq77


	2. Firebird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Describes an airplane crash. Spoiler: everyone survives.

Sherlock made his living from movement, so planes were agony for him. Hours and hours of being strapped into a chair, in a sealed vehicle from which he could make no escape. For the first fifteen minutes he could amuse himself by deducing the other passengers, but it was a limited audience, and the only way to learn more about them would be to talk to them, and that was  _ not _ an acceptable solution.

They were taking the red-eye, so they took off from Heathrow in twilight, offering a dazzling view of the city from the air. After that, it grew dark quickly and looking out the window lost its attraction. Mrs. Hudson was making herself comfortable with a miniscule airplane pillow and no-doubt unhygienic blanket; unlike Sherlock, she was able to sleep on a plane and planned to sleep through the twelve hours to Tokyo. Other passengers seemed to be doing the same, and now the cabin was darkened and quiet, with only a few reading lights on.

Sherlock was listening to the score for  _ Giselle _ on his phone, and speaking softly into his voice recorder, recording his notes for the conductor. Seiji Ozawa was coming out of retirement and back to his homeland for this production, and Sherlock had to admit that he was tolerably talented. Ozawa had sent him recordings of the orchestra’s interpretation of the music – something that Sherlock always demanded but rarely received.

“Mind the crescendo at the sixteenth bar – brandy please,” Sherlock said to the air hostess. Two of the many advantages of flying first class were air hosts that were so accustomed to celebrities that they left them alone, and good alcohol.

“Certainly, sir,” she said. As she passed him the glass (not plastic – three advantages), the lights flickered and went off.

Sherlock pressed pause on his phone and looked up at the air hostess. “What was that?”

“Not sure,” she said, and smiled. “I’m sure it’s nothing, let me go check.”

She walked silently down the aisle towards the front of the plane. Sherlock sat frozen in his chair. The air hostess was good at her job, calm and reassuring, but for a brief second he had seen fear on her face.

He quietly released the buckle on his seat belt and stepped over Mrs. Hudson’s legs, taking advantage of the low light and his dark suit to follow the air hostess. She slipped behind a curtain and Sherlock heard her pick up the tannoy phone.

“First class to cockpit, what-”

Through the phone, muffled by her ear, Sherlock could hear chaos and shouting from the cockpit.

_ “Electrical fire – engines failing – rapid descent.” _

Sherlock’s heart began to pound. He checked his watch and saw that they had only been flying for two and a half hours. Past France, certainly, likely past Italy, not as far as Turkey – possibly Eastern Europe? They had to land, and quickly. Where could they land?

The air hosts were already in action, shaking passengers awake, speaking to them firmly but calmly. Sherlock pulled his notebook and a pen from his breast pocket, and scribbled on it, trying to ignore how his hands were shaking.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking,” said a male voice over the tannoy. Again, cool and calm, but Sherlock could hear a rill of fear underlying the captain’s voice. “We’re experiencing some engine trouble and must land immediately.”

A collection of groans arose from the passengers, clearly only seeing the inconvenience to them, and not the danger. The noise nearly drowned out the rest of the captain’s announcement, but Sherlock, straining his ears, heard.

“We have been given permission to land at the closest runway, the Lađevci military air base in Serbia, and should be landing very soon. Please remain calm and listen to the instructions of the cabin crew. Thank you.”

Serbia. Military base. Sherlock found himself unable to breathe.

An air hostess startled him back to himself, saying urgently, “Please return to your seat immediately sir, and buckle-”

“Yes, yes,” he said. He moved swiftly to his seat, but did not sit. He crouched by Mrs. Hudson, who was blinking herself awake, not yet aware of the seriousness of the situation.

“Sherlock? What is it? Are we landing?”

“Yes, but not in Tokyo.” He held up the piece of paper from his notebook. “Listen to me carefully, Mrs. Hudson. If we get separated, call this number and tell him ‘Siegfried has gone to the forest.’ Do you understand?”

“What? What’s happening, Sherlock?”

“’Siegfried has gone to the forest,’” he repeated. He pushed the paper into her bra, ignoring her shocked gasp. “Promise me.”

“Yes, Sherlock, but-”

“We’re crashing. In Serbia.”

He stood and ran to the back of the plane, dodging the air hostess. The plane bucked under his feet, in a way that was decisively not turbulence. The air hostess pulled at his arm, no longer masking the fear on her face, but he yanked himself away and ran into the loo.

He pulled his passport out of his jacket pocket, and a lighter. Bracing himself against the walls of the small toilet, he opened his passport and held the lighter up to the page with his picture. At first, the paper refused to catch, but then a slow flame licked up along the edge and gradually turned the paper black.

The plane lurched again, tipping to an angle that made Sherlock’s stomach twist. He swallowed back the vomit, and blew out the flame. He dropped the tattered remains of the passport in to the toilet and turned back toward the cabin.

Passengers were screaming – women and men. Strangers were clutching at each other. The air hosts were seated and folded over themselves, their hands cupped over the backs of their heads. Sherlock took a step towards his seat, and another shudder rocked the plane, and he fell. A stabbing pain arched through his ribs, and he was suddenly hot and cold wet. He realized that he had fallen into the drinks cart and been doused with juice and coffee, and, more seriously, had likely broken a rib. He gritted his teeth against the pain and pulled himself up, hearing the crunch of glass under his feet.

He felt a hand grip his jacket, and saw one of the air hostesses reaching toward him, trying to pull him up. “Thank you – thank you-” he panted as he found his feet again. He braced himself on the seats, pulling himself toward his seat, Mrs Hudson screaming his name.

There was an ear-splitting shriek of tyres hitting the runway and Sherlock found himself flying through the air toward the front of the plane. He hit the bulkhead and slid down the wall, crying out in pain. He caught a brief glimpse of Mrs. Hudson’s terrified face.

In slow motion, he saw an overhead cabinet pop open, and suitcases fly out. A silver hard case flew directly at him, the world exploded in silver and red, and he knew no more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seiji Ozawa is a orchestra conductor whose origins are Japanese and who has conducted with the San Francisco Symphony, Toronto Symphony Orchestra, and the Boston Symphony Orchestra.
> 
> Tribute to the director of White Nights, the film this fic is riffing from, for filming one of the most realistic plane crashes in the movies. No YouTube clip, I’m afraid. (If you do see the film, note that Baryshnikov did his own stunts for that scene.)


	3. The Red Shoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some uses of other languages. If you hover over the phrase, the English translation will pop up. If you want to do this, go to https://archiveofourown.org/works/12123858 for instructions.
> 
> Edit: I've been told the hover function doesn't work on mobile, so I've added the translations into the End Notes.

Sherlock came back to consciousness slowly, painfully; like floating upwards through deep water.

The first thing to penetrate his senses was a regular pinging noise. Then his head announced its agony, and the pinging increased slightly. So, a heart rate monitor, which meant a hospital. But where?

The sting of bleach and rubbing alcohol filled his nostrils. His skin prickled at the rough feel of bleached cotton sheets and clothing. Every muscle ached with bruises and disuse. His mouth was dry, his lips cracked. Definitely a hospital, and he had been here, comatose or sleeping or drugged, for at least a day, perhaps more. More information was required.

As he struggled to open his eyes, his memory rushed back with images of the plane, and that they had made an emergency landing in Serbia. And that could mean a lot of trouble for Sherlock, depending on where exactly he was. If only he could open his eyes he could figure it out.

Finally he was able to crack his lids open a bit, and promptly closed them again. The room was filled with light, and it hurt his already aching head. He waited impatiently, his eyes barely open, for them to adjust.

The room was small and bare, the concrete block walls painted impersonally white with no painting or decoration to break their monotony. A plain wooden chair was next to the iron bed he was lying in. Turning his head slightly he could see a number of IV poles, and a monitor clipped to his right index finger. The room was bright, but with artificial light. No window. Not an English hospital bed, then. He peered at the bags hanging from the IV poles, and could see Cyrillic figures. Very likely Serbia then. This was not good.

There was a door opposite his bed, with a small window high up on the door. Sherlock could see the edge of a peaked, olive green hat through the window. Military hospital, with a guard. Really not good.

His wrists were pinned to the rail of the bed by leather restraints. Very bad indeed.

He heard his heart rate rise, the pinging becoming more rapid, and he forced himself to breathe, to relax. It was important to stay calm, to stay focused; it was his only chance.

A woman slipped into the room, dressed all in white and wearing a cap – a nurse.

“ _Dobro jutro_ ,” she said in the bright manner possessed by all nurses around the world. “ _Budan si!_ ”

He understood her, of course. But it would not do to indicate that. Stay calm, stay focused. He gave her a charming but weak and confused smile.

“ _Kako se osećaš _?”

He shook his head at her, then winced genuinely at the pain the gesture created.

“ _Bol _?” she said. She made a face that pantomimed suffering, and he held up his hand as far as the restraints would allow and tipped his thumb and pinky finger – so-so. He didn’t want her putting him on morphine and incapacitating him further.

She came closer and lifted his arm slightly to take his blood pressure. He shook his manacled hand a bit at her, raising his eyebrows hopefully. To his dismay, she shook her head, and mimed him pulling out his IV. He shook his head again, trying to express with his face ‘ _I won’t do that, I promise’_ . And underlying that, ‘ _Help me’_.

She shook her head again. The door opened again, much more abruptly than the nurse had done, and a man in a suit and trench coat entered. Sherlock saw on the nurse’s face the same expression as the air hostesses had had on the plane: calm and professional exterior, but with fear underlying.

“Ah, _ budan si_,” said the man. And to the nurse, “ _Idi, hvala ti _.”

The nurse exited quickly, without even finishing with his blood pressure.

Sherlock scanned the man quickly. Military posture, but older and slightly pudgy. No insignia. So retired or so high ranking that a uniform was not required. Or military police. Or secret police. In short, not a person that Sherlock wanted to be alone with, in a military hospital in Serbia, or anywhere.

“ _Udobno vam je _?” the man said. Then he shook his head in a friendly way that screamed artifice. “But I apologize, I should speak English. You are comfortable?”

Sherlock gave the same confused but charming smile he had given the nurse. The man raised his eyebrows.

“You do not wish to speak English?”

Sherlock thought quickly. Giving away the fact that he was British would not be wise, and would lead to his identification quicker than he would like. Who should he pretend to be, from where? Not American, they were not well liked on the international stage right now. He cursed himself for not following world news more closely. Claiming to be French was dodgy, he couldn’t remember what the relationship was between France and Serbia. German? Also not certain. He certainly couldn’t pull off Japanese, and he wasn’t strong enough in the language anyway. Ah!

“ _Je suis Canadien_ ,” Sherlock said.

He knew that Canadians were known for their diplomacy and their tendency to apologise for minor things. He had spent a fair amount of time in Canada, dancing in Toronto, Montreal, and Winnipeg, and felt confident in his ability to speak French and affect the Canadian affability.

“Ohhh,” the man said smoothly. “ _Désolé, monsieur. Vous êtes comfortable _?”

“ _Oui, merci, mais pourquoi suis-je attaché? "_

_" Nous ne voulions pas que vous vous blessiez dans votre sommeil.” _

_“ Ce n'est pas nécessaire maintenant. Puis-je parler à l'Ambassadeur du Canada_?”

“ _Votre nom, s’il vous plaît _?”

Sherlock thought quickly, plucked a name from the air. “Guillaume Fortin.” A common enough name, but not so common that it sounded suspiciously like an alias.

“ _Enchanté, monsieur. Kapetane Dejan Pavlović, à votre service_.”

“ _Merci_ ,” Sherlock said. The pleasantries were beginning to gnaw at him. “ _Encore, puis-je parler à l'Ambassadeur du Canada? Je veux parler à - _”

“But why?” Pavlović interrupted. “Why would you want to speak to the Canadian Ambassador, when the British one is so much more convenient?”

Sherlock was stunned to silence.

Pavlović smiled, and the smugness of it both irritated and frightened Sherlock. He suddenly felt six years old, caught out in a lie by nanny. He tried to recover, keep his face impassive.

Pavlović had pulled a tablet from his pocket and swiped his finger across it. “We’ve reviewed the manifest from the plane, you see. Several Japanese, of course. A couple of Americans. Seven British. And not one Canadian. Curious, is it not?”

Sherlock said nothing.

“We have identified everyone on the plane, checked every passport against every name on the manifest. Everyone checks out – except for one patient, with no identification.” Pavlović pulled an envelope out of his breast pocket, opened it, and pulled out the tattered and burnt remains of Sherlock’s passport. “And the remains of one passport which would appear to be British. Interesting, is it not?”

Sherlock felt his face blanch, but kept emotion from betraying him, and maintained his silence.

Unperturbed, Pavlović continued, looking at his tablet again. “It’s always important to check the manifest after an accident like that. It makes it easier to identify the dead.”

Sherlock’s mouth went dry. “Who is dead?” he said, giving up on speaking French.

“Please don’t be disturbed,” Pavlović said. “Your friend – Martha Hudson, is it? – was unharmed. Quite shaken, of course, but unharmed. She’s on her way home now.”

“Home?” Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t leave without him, surely wouldn’t leave, wouldn’t give up on him… “I would like to use a phone, please.”

“And call whom?” Pavlović said, his eyebrow arching. “Mrs. Hudson is enroute and unreachable for several hours still. You have no romantic partner.” Pavlović stared at him sharply. “Your… brother, perhaps?”

Sherlock swallowed the cold lump in his throat. “I have a right to phone whomever I wish.”

“Pah!” Pavlović spat, his face contorting. “Your rights! You actually think you have rights here?”

“Of course I have.”

“Because you are… Canadian? The manifest said you were British. Why did you tell me you were Canadian?”

“Dual citizenship,” Sherlock lied smoothly.

“I see.”

“Serbia is a member of the United Nations now,” Sherlock said with some heat. “You cannot prevent me from contacting my embassy, or my family.”

Pavlović laughed without real humour; a scornful, vicious laugh. “You think you know the rules? You think you know how the world works? You’re a ballet dancer. You know _nothing_ about how the world works.”

Anger overtook the fear that had been rising in Sherlock’s gut since Pavlović had entered the room. “Ah, I see. The poor misguided artist, living in a make-believe haze, without a clue of the workings of the real world. Is that it? Do you know how often I’ve heard that over my career? Ridiculous. Of course I know how the world works.”

“Do you, Mr. Holmes? Do you really?”

“Of course I do.”

“Do you know who _does_ understand how the world works?” Pavlović smiled, a thin varnish of calm over the anger Sherlock knew lay beneath. “Your brother. Mr. Mycroft Holmes. Now there’s a man that understands the world.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, partly out of habit and partly in bravado.

Pavlović continued as if he hadn’t noticed. “Yes, he understands. The quintessential politician. He understands that sacrifices sometimes need to be made. That one man sometimes needs to pay the price of a whole country. Even if that one man is a brother.”

Sherlock felt a cold sweat break out over his body. “I-”

Pavlović smiled. “I saw you dance when you were here last. 2013, wasn’t it?” He put on his hat, and moved to the door. “You were sublime. I’m a big fan, you know.” He opened the door and looked back at Sherlock. “Get well soon,” he said, and left.

Sherlock saw Pavlović speak briefly to the soldier outside the door, then the small window was blocked by the soldier’s head, blocking the sunlight.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to the camera in the corner of the room. He forced his face to be lax and without fear or tension. He unclenched and relaxed his hands. But he couldn’t stop the staccato beat of his heart, broadcast loud and clear by the monitor.

**

Time passed. It was hard to tell how much time, with no clocks in the room. There was no external window to see the passage of sunlight. All he could see through the tiny window on the door was the peak of the soldier’s hat, which only moved for a few seconds at a time, so he couldn’t even tell when a shift was changing.

Sherlock waited nervously, but he knew he was waiting for something.

After what must have been hours or even a whole day, another nurse entered, a male one this time, pushing a small trolley of instruments. The nurse didn’t even look at Sherlock in the face, but rather checked his vitals impersonally.

“ _Ŝta se događa_?” Sherlock said.

The nurse did not respond, ignoring him as though he had never spoken, as though he was still unconscious.

“ _Molim vas_?”

The nurse grunted, and Sherlock thought he was responding to his plea, but then it appeared as though he was affirming something to himself. He took a large vial from the tray, and carefully injected it into one of the IVs attached to Sherlock.

“ _Ŝta to radiš _?” But even as he spoke, Sherlock felt the curling of sleep flowing into his veins. He jerked his arms, the restraints holding him back, as if he could prevent the drug from entering his bloodstream.

“Help me,” he said, the words drawling out of his mouth as the nurse watched him impassively, then everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone knows Serb enough to correct my grammar (thank you, Google Translate), please let me know. Thanks to @shamelessmash for her help with the French.
> 
> Dobro jutro - Good morning  
> Budan si! - You are awake!  
> Kako se osećaš? - How are you feeling?  
> Bol? - Pain?  
> Idi, hvala ti - Go, thank you  
> Udobno vam je? - You are comfortable?  
> Je suis Canadien - I am Canadian  
> Désolé, monsieur. Vous êtes comfortable? - Sorry, sir. You are comfortable?  
> Oui, merci, mais pourquoi suis-je attaché? -Yes, thank you, but why am I restrained?  
> Nous ne voulions pas que vous vous blessiez dans votre sommeil. - We did not want you to hurt yourself in your sleep.  
> Ce n'est pas nécessaire maintenant. Puis-je parler à l'Ambassadeur du Canada? - That is not necessary now. May I speak with the Canadian Ambassador?  
> Votre nom, s’il vous plaît? - Your name please?  
> Enchanté, monsieur. Kapetane Dejan Pavlović, à votre service. - Enchanted, sir. Captain Dejan Pavlović, at your service.  
> Merci... Encore, puis-je parler à l'Ambassadeur du Canada? Je veux parler à - Thank you. Again, may I speak with the Canadian ambassador? I wish to speak to-  
> Ŝta se događa? - What’s happening?  
> Molim vas? - Please?  
> Ŝta to radiš? - What are you doing?


	4. La Fille mal Gardée

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashback.

_National Museum of Serbia, 2013_

Sherlock stood in front of a John Constable landscape, studying it. He felt rather than saw the man stop next to him.

“Not really my style,” said the man.

“Nor mine,” Sherlock said. “I prefer portraits. Landscapes bore me.”

“Why portraits?”

Sherlock shrugged. “You can tell more about the person, and about the era they lived in. You can learn more from their clothes, the way they hold their body, what they are doing with their hands, the expression on their face. I look at a landscape and think, ‘Ah, look. A tree’.”

“Ah,” said the man. “But many trees can make a forest. And you can lose yourself in a forest.”

Sherlock smiled small. “And one can find swans in a forest.”

“True.” The man turned to Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes, I presume.”

Sherlock nodded. “I won’t ask your name, then?”

“A wise move, Mr. Holmes. Have you enjoyed your time in Serbia?”

“This is the first time I’ve been anywhere but the hotel or the theatre,” Sherlock said. “We close tonight, fly out tomorrow.”

“Pity.” The man took a postcard from his jacket pocket and handed it to Sherlock. “Here. A small memento of your visit.”

Sherlock took the postcard and studied it – a scenic view of the Old Palace in Belgrade. “But if I mail it now, I will get home before it arrives.”

“You cannot trust the mails, Mr. Holmes. Better take it with you personally.”

“Sherlock, dear! There you are!” a female voice called across the gallery.

“Safe travels,” said the man, and strolled away as Sherlock tucked the postcard in his own pocket.

Janina crossed to Sherlock and slid her hand into the crook of his arm. “I think I lost in you in the modern art section.”

Sherlock smiled down at her. “To be honest, modern art is lost on me."

“Another thing we have in common,” Janina purred, looking at him from under her lashes.

“Shall we go then? We need to prepare for tonight’s performance,” Sherlock said.

“Do you want to stop in the gift shop? Buy a souvenir for someone back home?”

Sherlock led them out of the room, away from the landscape. “Already taken care of.”

**

They were performing _Giselle_. Sherlock had some fondness for that ballet – not just for the opportunity to emote great emotion through dance, but also for its place in his career. He was seventeen years old and newly graduated from the Royal Ballet Academy when he was cast as Hilarion; a secondary role, but a plum for a young dancer just beginning his career. He had nearly upstaged the lead dancer, and the artistic director had promptly hired him as a principal dancer for the following season. Sherlock never danced a secondary role again. This time he was playing the lead, Albrecht, and Janina was playing the Queen of the Willis, the ghosts of women who had been wronged; a demanding role, and he had to grudgingly admit she was an acceptable dancer.

At intermission, Sherlock drank thirstily from his bottle of water and patted at his sweaty face with a towel, careful to not mar his stage makeup. His mobile trilled, and he glared at it. Then he looked at the caller ID and glared harder. He answered.

“I’ve told you time and again to not call during a performance,” he snapped.

“You are four and a half minutes into intermission,” said Mycroft, unperturbed, “with fifteen minutes and thirty seconds to go. Plenty of time to get a cigarette before your next entrance. Besides, this is urgent.”

“When is it not urgent?”

“I mean it, Sherlock.” His brother’s voice had turned sharp in a way that caught Sherlock’s attention. “I’m afraid you’ve been compromised. Your contact in Belgrade was shot forty minutes ago, and it’s extremely likely that his assassins are aware that you were the man he met at the National Museum earlier today. Do you have the package?”

Sherlock quickly checked his jacket pocket and pulled out the postcard. “Yes.”

“You cannot afford to wait to fly out with the rest of the company tomorrow. We will get you out tonight.”

“How?”

“Leave immediately after the performance; do not stay for a single glass of champagne. The curtain should fall at approximately 10:32 pm local time. There will be a car just across the road from the stage door at 10:35. Use the usual code phrase. The driver will take you to the airport, to a private jet. Take nothing but your passport; arouse no suspicion.”

“Understood.” Sherlock disconnected.

He held the postcard up to the light, and could see the silhouette of a tiny square inside the postcard. He ripped the postcard until he revealed the square, a tiny microchip the size of his thumbnail. He checked the time – thirteen minutes. No time to waste.

He removed his right ballet slipper and, using a pair of nail scissors, carefully pried up the insole of the shoe. He slid the chip under the insole, pressing it into place. He replaced the shoe on his foot, and flexed his foot. _Plié. Arabesque. Entrechat_.

He nodded in satisfaction, just as the stage manager knocked on the door, saying “Places for act three, Mr. Holmes.”

He danced the third act with the chip in his slipper. Privately he was laughing to himself the whole time, at the thought of an audience full of the hoi polloi of Serbia, and he had a chip with god knows what state secrets in his shoe.

He realized that he never asked his contact or Mycroft what was on the chip. Best not to know, he supposed.

He took his bows to the rapturous applause of the audience. The stage manager brought a huge bouquet of flowers to Janina. She subtly looked at the card, and smiled rapturously at him. He smiled back, and brought her downstage to take another bow.

Backstage was full of noise and cheering, and the sound of champagne corks popping. He made his way quickly through the crowd towards his dressing room. He looked at his mobile – 10:36. Mycroft had never understood that it took time to get through a busy backstage. He tucked his mobile and his passport into his tunic – no time to change.

He was making his way to the stage door when he saw Janina making her way to him, two glasses of champagne in her hands. “Sherlock, darling! You were marvellous! Come and celebrate!” she cried. She pushed one glass into his hand, and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you for the flowers,” she whispered into his ear. “We can celebrate privately later, yes?”

She looked up at him seductively, all red lips and dark eyelashes. Queen of the Willis, indeed.

He gently pressed the champagne back at her. “I’ll be there in a moment, darling,” he murmured. “Give me a minute – I’m gasping for a cigarette.”

“Don’t be long,” she said.

He stepped out the stage door, and stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. There was the car, expensive and black but unobtrusive, idling across the road. The driver was looking at his watch.

“Sir?” said the guard at the door.

“Just a moment,” Sherlock said. He ran across the road, in full costume and ballet slippers, and slid into the back seat.

“Sir?” said the driver.

“Sir?” shouted the guard.

“Siegfried is in the forest,” Sherlock hissed at the driver. “Go!”

The driver shifted into gear and the car leapt out into the streets. Sherlock looked back to see the guard running fruitlessly after the car.

“Better hurry,” Sherlock said. “That guard will be calling his supervisor in a minute. Or getting in his own car. I don’t think that’s just a stage door guard.”

The driver did not reply, but simply nodded, and the car sped forward as though stung.

Normally the drive to the airport would be forty-five minutes, if Sherlock had been in a regular cab, but now it only took thirty-two. Sherlock kept an eye on the back window, watching for any cars that seemed to be following them. But they were on a major road now, and he couldn’t be sure.

The driver guided the car into the airport, directly to a private runway behind the building and to the steps of a Learjet. Sherlock could hear the roar of the engines of the little plane.

“Hurry, sir,” said the driver. “They’re coming. Safe travel.”

Sherlock sprinted from the car to the plane, taking the steps two at a time. He turned into the cabin and was surprised to see Mycroft, already seated and buckled in.

“Hello, brother,” Mycroft said, as though it was teatime. “Do sit. We’re taking off immediately.”

Sherlock sat with a sigh, buckling his seatbelt. The plane began to move even before he had settled in his seat.

“Do you want-” he began, and Mycroft held up an imperious hand.

“Not yet,” Mycroft said.

Through the cabin window, Sherlock could see headlights racing down the runway towards the plane, but the plane began to taxi away from them, gaining speed. The runway seemed to go on forever, but then he felt the plane tilting upwards, and gravity pressed him into his seat. Looking down, he saw tiny figures coming out of the car to stare at the plane as it flew away. He looked over at Mycroft.

“Not yet,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock detected that the tension in the air had not wholly dissipated since the plane had taken off. Even the pilots worked in silence, and Sherlock could see the tension along their backs.

After what felt like a year, the pilot turned his head to Mycroft and said, “Out of Serbian airspace, sir.”

There was a collective exhalation of breath from everyone on the plane. Mycroft turned to Sherlock. Anyone who didn’t know Mycroft extremely well would not notice a difference in his expression, but Sherlock could see the relief etched in his brow.

“I’ll take the chip now, Sherlock, if I may,” he said.

Sherlock lifted his foot and pulled off his ballet shoe. Mycroft winced.

“I did come directly off stage after three hours of dancing,” Sherlock said. “Sorry about the sweat.” He pried the insole up, extracted the chip, and placed it in Mycroft’s palm. Mycroft immediately transferred it to his handkerchief.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said blandly.

“You owe me a favour,” Sherlock replied, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “And a new wardrobe, I had a number of nice items in my hotel room.”

“Of course.”

Sherlock looked down at his ruined ballet slipper. “And new shoes. From Bloch, in Drury Lane, if you please. They’re the best.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Giselle is one of the more frequently performed ballets. It's the story of a young woman who is jilted by a prince, Albrecht, and dies of grief, dancing herself to death. In the second act, the prince visits her grave and is surrounded by Willis, the ghosts of wronged women. The Queen of the Willis directs him to dance to his death as well. It's a super, melodramatic story, and a demanding role for Giselle, Albrecht and the Queen.
> 
> There is a rumour that Audrey Hepburn, in her youth as a ballet dancer, smuggled secrets out of Amsterdam in her ballet shoe.
> 
> Oh yes, and "Siegfried is in the forest" is a reference to Swan Lake.


	5. Afternoon of a Faun

_Present day_

 

Sherlock woke slowly, to bright sunlight arcing across his face. He blinked and swallowed, his throat dry as sand; presumably an after effect of the sedative he had been given. He was lying on his side, one leg folded nearly perpendicular to the other, his bottom arm stretched out to its full length. Recovery position. At least someone cared that he didn’t choke on his own vomit while unconscious.

No restraints. Hm.

He sat up slowly and carefully, and assessed himself. His head ached still, but not as loudly as before, and he could feel a large bandage on his temple. Sore, particularly his ribs which had clearly cracked in the plane crash; he could still feel the tape binding them. But no outright pain. His muscles were stiff from underuse, a state he was not used to. There was a moment of dizziness, which passed quickly.

He was in a bedroom, not a hospital room. He was not dressed in a hospital gown but in clothes that were not his own, loose jogging pants and a t-shirt. The bed was low and lumpy, and he was covered with a hand-crocheted blanket. The walls had a few pictures in cheap frames, some photos, some paintings done by children with ‘ _Hvala ti’_ written along the bottom. There was a dresser which had seen better days in the corner. A window with curtains that were clearly once sheets. And a doorway, covered only with another curtain.

He could smell coffee.

He stood, expecting another wave of dizziness but none came. With one hand tracing against the wall for support should he need it, he walked to the doorway, pushed the curtain aside.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected to see, but it wasn’t a homely kitchen table, several mismatched chairs, a concave sofa in the corner, and worn rugs scattered over the floor. A doorway just beyond the table revealed the corner of a cooker - obviously a kitchen. Setting the table was a woman: petite, with straight blonde hair and large eyes. She startled slightly when Sherlock entered and stared at him.

“ _Zdravo_ ,” Sherlock said. He had to assume he was still in Serbia.

“ _Dobro jutro_ ,” she responded. No hint of a welcoming smile touched her face. She half turned behind her, not taking her eyes off Sherlock, and said softly, “ _On je budan._ ”

There was a rustle, and then a man emerged from the room Sherlock had assumed to be the kitchen. He was small in stature and small in posture, his shoulders pinched in from pain or apology. His face was lined and tired, his hair sandy and grey, but his vivid blue eyes told Sherlock that he was younger than his appearance – late 30s or early 40s. He leaned heavily on a cane, limping across the room to Sherlock, his hand extended.

“Ah. Good morning, glad to see you’re awake,” the man said.

Sherlock sagged with relief – his accent was clearly, undoubtedly English. “Thank God,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. “Are you from the embassy? I couldn’t get word-”

“I’m-” the man interrupted, then paused, ducking his head with an embarrassed smile. “I’m not from the embassy.”

Sherlock tensed as he cursed himself. How could he have assumed that Pavlović and the Serbian government would just let him walk away? He had made an assumption, and that assumption had allowed him to let his guard down. He mustn’t let his guard down until he was home, in his own flat.

But if this man was not from the embassy, who was he? Why was Sherlock here with him, and the sullen woman at the table?

He saw the woman from the corner of his eye, saw that she was smiling now for the first time, but it was more of a smirk than a smile. The man noticed it too, and deflated slightly when he saw it. Then he turned to Sherlock again, with a more genuine smile.

“Let’s start again,” he said. He extended his hand again. “I’m Dr. John Watson.”

Sherlock allowed a moment to pass, to wrap his dignity around himself, to let these two know that he wasn’t a fool and would not be taken in again, then took the proffered hand. “Sherlock Holmes.”

John nodded, and he seemed to be accepting Sherlock’s new attitude with that nod. He gestured to the woman. “My wife, Maja.”

The woman nodded, her face now clear again as though she had never smirked. “Hello.” She touched her mouth, now apologetically. “I speak some English, not well. Pardon.”

“Your English is just fine,” John said. He turned back to Sherlock. “Breakfast?”

“Coffee,” Sherlock said. He found no reason to be polite, even for show.

“You should have something to eat,” John said. “I understand you’ve had a concussion.”

“If I can’t have coffee, then I’d like to have answers,” Sherlock said coldly. “Where am I, and why am I here?”

“Fair enough,” John said, in such an amiable way that Sherlock’s skin crawled. “You’re at our home, about thirty kilometers south of Prokuplje. You’re here because… well, I’m a doctor, Maja’s a nurse, and Captain Pavlović thought you should continue to have medical supervision.”

“Captain Pavlović thought that, did he.” Sherlock said. He crossed his arms over his chest, ignoring the pain it caused his ribs. “And how exactly do you know Captain Pavlović?”

“I treated him a few years back,” John said. “Angina.”

“Oh, he has a heart, then? I wasn’t sure.”

John snorted in a laugh, but Maja’s face was expressionless as she slid a plate of food in front of him.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and spent a moment scanning them.

John: definitely British, had seen combat as a soldier, wounded in action several years ago, ergo the cane. Slight hand tremor. Restless sleeper. Not currently lying, but certainly keeping some secrets.

Maja: No formal training as a nurse, but likely fell into the work by accident, either by marriage or circumstance. Cooks, but resents having to do so, not just for Sherlock. Extremely resentful of Sherlock’s presence in her home. Sound sleeper. Also keeping secrets.

In other words, no reason to trust either of them.

“So Captain Pavlović decided that the hospital on the base was no longer sufficient, and transported me while drugged hundreds of kilometers away, to the private home of the doctor who treated him a few years earlier? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“John, he was very angry,” Maja said, speaking up for the first time.

“Maja,” John said softly. A smile that contained more embarrassment than anything else flicked across his face.

“Is true,” she said. “They bring you on a stretcher, not conscious. John raise a big fuss. ‘Why sedate? No need for sedate’ he say. He was worried for your brain, so soon after concussion. They dump you on bed like clothes. John make sure you okay, not choke. Pavlović say he come back when you are better.”

“And then what?” Sherlock said. “What happens then?”

“He didn’t say,” John said. “I’d like to examine you, if that’s all right, after breakfast. Make sure you’re all right.”

“It’s not all right,” Sherlock said. “So what are you – a doctor with a side business in prison guard?”

“What?” John said. There was a clip of ice in his words now.

“Oh come now, I’m not stupid. If I’m still not well, I should be in hospital. If I’m not sufficiently ill for hospital, I should be free to go, or my embassy or family should have been contacted. Since that has not happened, I assume that your actual purpose is to keep an eye on me for Pavlović.”

“Wrong.”

“What part?”

“I’m a doctor, nothing else. Pavlović thought you might want to complete your recovery in a home rather than a military hospital. He asked me a favour.”

“A favour, I see. Well.” Sherlock stood. “I seem to be recovered. May I go?”

John shrugged. “If you like.”

Maja shot him a look and hissed, “John.”

John held up a hand. “I’m not a guard, and this is our home, not a prison. I see no bars. You’re free as a bird.”

Sherlock frowned at him. The man must be irredeemably stupid. “I won’t get shot the moment I step outside?”

“Of course not.”

How far would this test go? “I might go for a walk then. Get some fresh air. Aid with my recovery.”

“All right. Take a jumper, it’s cold out.”

Sherlock glanced around the small room, and saw a wooden door, carved but solid, with both an old iron handle and a modern lock - clearly the front door. Disbelievingly Sherlock stepped to the main door, keeping his eyes on John and Maja. They sat there at the table: John casually, his head tilted to the side; Maja was more tense, her mouth set in a firm, thin line. Sherlock opened the door and stepped out, his ears straining for the sound of a cocked gun. He closed the door carefully and quietly behind him.

The Watson home was a tiny house surrounded by farmland and scrub. Sherlock could see no other farm or house. He walked slowly away into the absolute quiet of the countryside, with only the occasional chirp of birds breaking the silence. There was a phone line leading into the house but no mobile towers in sight. So the only phone was in the house. He could follow the phone line, perhaps find another house, but the line led into heavy scrubland – who knew how long he would have to walk.

There was a faint dirt road running east/west beside the house. He stood at the side of the road for a moment, wondering which direction would bear the most fruit. He could see no sign of civilization in either direction. He jogged a little way down the road, westward, ignoring the pain in his ribs. After only a few hundred meters he stopped, his legs wobbly and weak. He had no idea if this was the best direction to a larger town or city. He could be going in the opposite direction of where he needed to go.

It could be tens of kilometers before he found anything or anyone, and he was already feeling the strain of his injuries and long confinement in bed. He had no food, no water, no money. He might as well be in prison.

He looked down at the dirt road, and saw tyre tracks imprinted in the dry earth. Of course, if John Watson was a doctor, he would often need supplies, or get out to meet a patient, so he must have…

Sherlock’s eyes followed the tracks until they ended at a ramshackle shed.

Picking the lock was only a matter of moments, and he pulled open the doors to reveal a dusty, ancient Land Rover. His heart began to beat faster at the possibility of success as he jumped into the driver’s seat. It had been a long time since he’d jump started a car, but the vehicle was old enough that he was sure there wasn’t a security system. He leaned over to rip the casing from the steering wheel when he heard a jangle of keys.

He looked up, heart racing, to see John standing beside the car, leaning on his cane, holding up the car keys in the other hand. “I’d rather you didn’t tear my car apart, please,” he said mildly.

Slowly, slowly, Sherlock reached out his hand for the keys, and John didn’t move. Sherlock wrapped his hand around the keys, remembering the game of “Mother May I?” he had played as a child. John released the keys, with a faint smile on his face.

Sherlock glanced once more at John, watching to see if he would go for a concealed gun with his now free hand. But he saw no movement, not even the twitch of a muscle preparing for quick movement.

He put the key into the ignition and turned.

_Click._

Nothing but a loud, impotent click.

“We’re pretty isolated out here,” said John, in a matter of fact tone, “but we still get thieves. When we first started living here we had the gas drained a few times. Now we siphon off the gas at night, take the battery out and store it someplace safe.”

Sherlock stared at him.

John held out his hand, palm up. “Still want that coffee?”

An immense exhaustion splashed over Sherlock. Suddenly he felt every bruise, every pain in his body. All the tension rolled out of him, leaving nothing behind to help him. He slumped behind the wheel, took a deep breath, and placed the keys back in John’s hand.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hvala ti = Thank you  
> Zdravo = Hello  
> Dobro jutro = Good morning  
> On je budan = He is awake


	6. A Month in the Country

Sherlock had planned to lie down, just for a while, to think, to try to figure out his next course of action after his aborted escape attempt. To his personal mortification, he fell asleep, waking up to see that the angle of the sun had changed drastically. He could smell sausage, and onions, and potatoes, and his stomach growled. He had refused breakfast when he and John had returned from the garage, and now his body was desperate: he was hungry, he needed to stretch out his back, and he needed to piss.

He staggered to his feet and stood for a moment, tilting his head to the right and left and hearing multiple pops run down his back. He eyed a wooden chair in the corner of the room and considered running through a simple barre routine, but his rebellious body had a more urgent need.

He pulled the curtain aside and stepped back into the main room of the Watson house. John was setting the table (for three, Sherlock noted), and looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t have to say a word before John tilted his head to his right.

“I do hope you’ve got running water here,” Sherlock said sourly as he stepped into the tiny WC.

“Most of the time,” John said with a small smile. “I’m joking,” he said hastily to Sherlock’s shocked expression. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

A few minutes later, feeling vastly better, Sherlock came back out to see Maja putting plates of food out on the table. The needs of his bladder now met, his stomach reiterated its wants to him. For a moment he was torn between retreating back to his room out of pique for his situation, but then he realized that starving would not help his cause at all, and he needed his strength. He sat at the table and dug into the full plate in front of him.

“One of our neighbours is a pig farmer, and gets pneumonia every year,” John said, digging in himself. “He can’t pay except in sausages. We don’t starve around here.”

Sherlock tore a slice of bread, glancing at Maja as he did. He was resolved to make no more mistakes, and to learn as much about his – hosts? guards? – as he could.

“Pavlović called earlier,” Maja said, passing a jug of water to John.

Sherlock froze for a second at the sound of the name. Interestingly, so did John, but Maja carried on without noticing. Ah, so John didn’t like Pavlović either. He may have treated Pavlović as a patient, but that didn’t mean he liked the man himself. Well, that was one thing they had in common, anyway. John passed the water to Sherlock as though nothing had happened.

“Yes, he wanted to know how you were doing,” John said mildly. “I told him you were much better.”

“Did you tell him I was up and about?” Sherlock sneered.

A smile flashed across John’s face. “I told him you were on your feet, and doing well,” John said. “After supper, I’d like to give you an examination, if I may.” He glanced up at Sherlock. “Only with your permission.”

Interesting. Why would he allow Sherlock the illusion of autonomy over his situation? Unless he was trying to ingratiate himself to Sherlock. For the moment, he settled for a non-committal grunt.

“Pavlović said you are dancer?” Maja asked.

John looked up at Sherlock in surprise; clearly he had not been on that part of the conversation with Pavlović. “They didn’t say that when you arrived, just that you were famous and had been in an accident.”

“I am a dancer, yes,” Sherlock said.

“What kind of dancer?” John said. The interest on his face seemed genuine.

“Ballet.”

“Oh!” Maja said.

John tapped his hand on the table as though trying to remember something, then lit up. “Oh, I think I’ve placed you! Maja showed me a video, on YouTube, to that song, um, what was it?”

“Take Me to Church,” Maja said.

Sherlock sighed. This wasn’t the first time, and sadly, was likely not his last. “No, that’s Sergei Polunin. See?” Sherlock lifted his shirt up to show his bare chest and belly. “No tattoos.”

“Ah.” John looked down at the table, then took a drink of water. “Maja looks at those videos all the time. She really likes ballet.”

“Is  _ real _ dancing,” Maja said.

Sherlock had learned a substantial amount about the Watson marriage in the last two minutes. He had noted Maja’s low key resentment running through everything she did: the way the plate thumped when she placed it on the table, her sharp movements over the stove. It was possible this was due to his presence in the house; they may not have been given much choice about his staying there. But her disdain for her husband was clear in the eye roll when John had misidentified Sherlock.

John was putting up a good front of a strong marriage, perhaps because of a third person in the house. But Sherlock had seen his embarrassment at being caught wrong; at his wife’s disdain. And Maja’s comment about ‘real dancing’ had caused a flush in John’s neck – that comment had been a personal jab at John, and not really about Sherlock’s work at all.

He had seen no gestures of affection between them, nor eye contact, really. But John’s eyes had dilated when Sherlock had lifted his shirt, while there was no reaction at all from Maja.

This was a marriage that had gone stale, or perhaps had never had passion in it at all.

Interesting.

Dinner passed in silence. Sherlock was hungry, and he grudgingly admitted to himself that the food was good. He was just as happy to concentrate on eating instead of conversation or observing his hosts. The last time he had really eaten was a granola bar in the airport on the way to Tokyo. He supposed he had been on an intravenous drip while in hospital. 

After dinner, John turned to him. “May I examine you? I want to make sure you’re healing well.”

Sherlock glared at him, scorn and disbelief in his frame.

John sighed. “I know you have no reason to trust me,” he said. “But I really am a doctor. I’m as in the dark as you are about why Pavlović ditched you with us, but there’s no reason for your recovery to suffer because of it.”

“If you saved Pavlović’s life, why is he asking favours from you?”

John shrugged. “I don’t know either. Maja knows him better, she was his nurse in recovery. In fact, that’s how we met, I had only just started at the hospital. Perhaps that’s the favour we owe him – introducing me to my wife.” John smiled, but it was a weak one. “Let me get my kit.”

Sherlock sat impatiently as John listened to his heart and lungs, but he had to admit that John appeared to know what he was doing. The rigours of ballet meant that Sherlock spent a lot of time with health professionals, but Sherlock’s doctor and physiotherapist usually focused on specific joints or muscles.

John carefully peeled back the bandage on Sherlock’s forehead. “That cut is healing nicely. They didn’t tell me anything when you arrived, and Pavlović only said you’d been in an accident,” he said. “Were you in a car crash?”

“Plane crash.”

“What?” John looked genuinely astonished for a moment, then stood and palpitated Sherlock’s skull. “Headache? Blurred vision?”

“No.” Sherlock glanced up at John’s worried face. “No offense,” he said as snottily as he could, “but don’t you think I should be in a hospital? One in England, perhaps?”

John clenched his jaw and said nothing.

“If you were at the hospital in Belgrade, why are you here now, in the middle of nowhere?”

“I couldn’t-” John paused and pressed his lips together. “I had trouble being in a city.” He stared into the middle distance for a moment, then his eyes shifted away. He pressed his hands to Sherlock’s sides, eliciting a hiss of pain.

“You’re healing well,” John said as he sat back. “Another couple of days of rest and the ribs will be fine.” He looked down for a moment, then looked up at Sherlock. “Pavlović asked me to pass along a message, when he called,” he said, and Sherlock could hear him trying to be neutral and calm. “He asked if you would do a performance at the National Theatre in Belgrade. When you were well enough.”

Sherlock stared at John. “Whyever should I do that?”

John leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his expression frank and open. “Look, I don’t know what happened here, and I don’t particularly want to know. I’m just a doctor for a small farming community. And I don’t actually know Pavlović very well, but I know his type. He’s the big dick type, you know? And I don’t know what happened, but I suspect he’s got something on you, right? So, sometimes, with a big dick kind of person, you kind of have to let him think he’s got a big dick and then you’ve got more leverage.

“I think that’s what it is. You do the performance, Pavlović gets to look like a big hero, rescuing the famous ballet dancer, and then he’s happy and you get to go home.”

Sherlock pondered John. In fact, he had summarized the situation well, even though he genuinely didn’t seem to know the full story. Sherlock had embarrassed the Serbian government with his theft in 2013, and, by extension, Pavlović was embarrassed. Sherlock could swallow his pride, do the show, and then negotiate his way out.

And if that didn’t work, going to Belgrade would offer him greater opportunity to escape. In a city there were always more ways to get to a phone or, more importantly, to the British embassy itself. Moreover, he knew dancers from all over the world, and he could search his memory for the names of the crew at the theatre in Belgrade. He could get word out through one of them. And a full audience would surely include people who would recognize him, and spread word that Sherlock Holmes was alive and well and in Belgrade. And word would get to Mycroft, who seemed to always know someone somewhere.

But there was no way that Pavlović would allow him to go alone.

He cocked an eyebrow at John. “Am I to assume that if I say yes, you would be coming with me?”

John gave a kind of embarrassed shrug. “Pavlović kind of indicated that, yeah.”

It didn’t matter. The opportunities were still there, and John seemed to have a genuine interest in Sherlock’s recovery. It would be easier to escape if he was fully healed.

“I suppose we’re going to Belgrade then,” he said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the video for Take me to Church: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c-tW0CkvdDI


	7. An American in Paris

Three days later, when Sherlock’s ribs no longer offered stabbing pain when he breathed, a large car pulled up to the shabby house.

Earlier in the morning, Sherlock had overheard an argument between John and Maja. They were speaking softly and in Serb, but the house was too small for the conversation to be completely private. Sherlock didn’t hear every word, but John seemed to be worried about leaving his patients behind. Maja was snappish in return, saying something about “silly” and “holiday” before sweeping off to finish packing. Sherlock came out of his room then, and caught sight of John standing in the corner of the living room, leaning heavily on his cane, looking angry and forlorn at once. His face cleared when he looked up at Sherlock, and said, “Coffee?”

Sherlock had nothing to pack. He was a bit embarrassed getting into the luxury car wearing clothes that he wouldn’t even wear to morning barre rehearsal.

The car was large enough that they could all fit fairly comfortably for the long ride. John and Maja looked out of opposite windows. Sherlock closed his eyes as though sleeping, but was actually reviewing the map of Belgrade in his head.

Hours later, they pulled up outside a low rise building, as elegant as a hotel but without signage. Sherlock was surprised – he was expecting they would be housed in a hotel such as the Metropol Palace or the Saint Ten. He looked at John, who shrugged. Maja looked slightly disappointed.

“I will take you to your rooms, and bring your luggage later,” the driver said. They were the first words he had said to them. “Come.”

As they walked through the lobby, Sherlock noticed a number of men, all still wearing their hats, standing in the entrance of a small room. The men all looked up at their little group, and, nearly as one, nodded and went back to talking quietly amongst themselves. As they passed the small room, Sherlock caught a glimpse of two men sitting at desks, with headphones and watching several screens.

He pressed his lips together, information and deductions running through his head like wildfire. Men wearing hats inside, but not their coats - their appraising glances at the trio as they entered - soft conversations in Serb - screens and headphones.  It all meant one thing: guards. Surveillance. Constant surveillance.

The driver led them to an ancient elevator, just big enough for the four of them. It creaked slowly up two stories and juttered to a halt at a small anteroom with a closed door. A large man wearing a suit was waiting there. The driver opened the elevator door and let them out, then took the elevator back down.

The large man nodded at them, and opened the door to a large flat, filled with antique furniture and rich carpets, large windows, and art on the walls. Sherlock was dimly aware of John stopping short next to him and staring. Maja hissed something at him; likely a slang word, but Sherlock thought it meant ‘hick’.  Sherlock was used to hotels and guest flats of this type, but he had also stayed in worse.

Any admiration for the décor of the flat was quickly squashed by the sight of Pavlović sitting on the sofa, reading a paper.

“Ah! There you are,” Pavlović said. Sherlock knew that he had been warned of their approach by his men, and wanted to snarl at the false jollity Pavlović was demonstrating. “Welcome to Belgrade. Good morning, Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs. Watson. I hope your journey was smooth?”

Sherlock grunted, John said, “Yes,” and Maja said, “Thank you,” all at once.

“Excellent. I wanted to welcome you personally, and thank you, Mr. Holmes, for acquiescing to my request. I look forward to your performance.”

“Am I expected to rehearse here?” Sherlock said innocently. “The ceilings are high enough, but there is insufficient clear space for me to work properly.”

“We have acquired a rehearsal studio for your use,” Pavlović said. “A car will take you there tomorrow at nine in the morning. Ah!” he said as the driver came through the door, carrying John and Maja’s suitcases. “There we are, all settled. And Mr. Holmes, we were able to recover your luggage from the plane.”

He gestured to his right, and Sherlock looked through to a separate bedroom, also large and opulent, with his bags sitting on the bed. The driver walked through to the opposite side of the flat, where there was another bedroom, and deposited John and Maja’s somewhat shabbier bags on the bed there. Sherlock raised his eyebrows – so that was the sleeping arrangements, then. John was to watch over him, day and night.

“I will leave you to get settled,” Pavlović said, as though he was a concierge of a high end hotel instead of a high ranking military secret service agent. “The Director of the National Theatre will visit with you later this week to discuss your performance. Until then, enjoy your stay.”

Pavlović, still smiling in a way that crept under Sherlock’s skin, walked out the flat’s door with the driver, closing it behind him.

Before the elevator began to wheeze its way back down to the lobby, Sherlock darted to the main window of the sitting room. He stood to the side of the window casing and looked out at the street below. Two cars sat in the street, in easy sight from the window – and to the window, Sherlock realized. The cars were positioned in such a way that no movement from the window would go unseen.

As if to prove the point, the driver came out of the building and drove off in one of the cars. Two of the men from the lobby followed him, and leaned on the remaining car, chatting. Occasionally they would look up at the windows of the flat, nodding fractionally when they saw Sherlock standing there.

“Damn,” Sherlock said.

He ran to his bedroom, ignoring the odd looks he was getting from John and Maja. He looked out the window there – another car, another two men. His lip twisting in anger, he checked behind the pictures on the wall, first in his bedroom, then the dining room.

“What are you doing?” Maja said.

“Your friends should hide their bugs more carefully,” Sherlock said.

“What?” John said, his brow creasing.

Sherlock pointed to the high corners of the sitting room, then waved to the invisible audience. “Cameras. There, and there. You had better check your bedroom unless you want to put on a show for the security staff downstairs.”

“Are you-”

“There don’t appear to be cameras in the toilets, though there’s a microphone; small mercies.”

John’s jaw flexed, and he limped quickly off to the bedroom designated for him and Maja. Maja stood in the sitting room, staring at the cameras, her hand over her mouth. John returned from the bedroom a moment later, the frown on his face acting as confirmation.

“What the hell-”

“Don’t act so surprised.” Sherlock lay down on the sofa, his feet propped up on the arm, not caring for the upholstery. “What about the fellow outside? Hm? You think he’s a concierge? Try walking out that door to buy milk and you’ll find out in a hurry what he’s there for. And did you not notice that the car had no handles on the inside? They didn’t want to take the risk of my leaping out into traffic.”

He looked up at John and Maja; for once, their expressions were in sync, their jaws open and slack with disbelief. Sherlock smirked without humour. “You’re prisoners here, just as I am. Congratulations.”

 


	8. Le Corsair

The door to the flat opened at 9:00am sharp, and a different large man stepped in. “Your car is here,” he said.

Sherlock grabbed his rehearsal bag. “Right on time,” he said.

John looked at his wife, shrugged, picked up a bag of his own, and followed.

Sherlock and John sat in the back seats, and the large man, clearly their security guard, sat up front with the driver. As they drove, Sherlock noticed John studying the car doors, and the lack of handles. He quirked an eyebrow, but John ignored him and stared out the window. They drove through the streets of Belgrade in silence.

After only a few minutes’ drive, they pulled into the courtyard of a building. Sherlock waited in the car pointedly until the guard came around and opened the door for him. He looked up at the building, seeing large windows, with dim figures behind them. He wondered what would happen if he bolted, ran back toward the way the car had entered, or screamed “Help me!” towards those shadows. He looked back to the guard and the driver, saw the matching lumps at their waistbands under their jackets, and knew he’d be dead before he took a third step.

They were taken up to the fifth floor, where they were shown into a large studio, with mirrors and a ballet barre lining one wall, and huge arching windows looking over the river and flooding the room with light. A rosin box sat in the corner. There was another door on the other side of the studio, and Sherlock could see white tile beyond – a shower and toilet, no doubt. They had thought of everything a dancer could need.

The guard nodded at them, and closed the doors behind him. In the silence of the room, Sherlock heard the squeak of the man sitting on the wooden chair he had seen just outside the door.

Sherlock placed his bag in a corner of the room, and shrugged off his coat. John glanced around the room, noting the cameras in each corner that Sherlock had also seen, and frowned.  He limped to a chair against the far wall and sat, stretching out his leg in front of him. Sherlock turned to face him, leaning on the bar. After a moment, he opened his hands, as though asking a question.

“What?” John asked sourly.

“I am awaiting instruction,” Sherlock said.

“What are you talking about?”

“I have clearly been sent here to dance, to prepare for the performance I’m to give as the price of my freedom. You’re here, but you’ve already made it clear that you’re not here to guard me, or babysit me; besides which there’s the lunk outside the door doing that already. So. Why are you here?”

“I haven’t the first clue,” John said.

“I must come to the conclusion that you are here to be my ballet master.”

John didn’t respond, he just glared.

“It’s the only logical conclusion. You are to train me back into shape after my convalescence. Right then, carry on.”

“I’m not-”

“I had a ballet mistress once who used a cane,” Sherlock said. He turned and placed one hand on the barre, arranged his feet in first position. “She didn’t use it to walk, but she would keep time with it. Bang it on the ground. ‘And _up_ and _down_ and _head_ is _up_ and _shoul_ ders _down_.’ She was terrifying but she was the one who pushed me to improve my turnout. See?” Sherlock indicated his feet: heels together, toes out; a perfect straight line. “I’ve had complete turnout since I was twelve. Can’t stand any other way now.”

“Look-”

“Perhaps I should run through my barre routine, and you can critique my form?” He bent his knees in a plié, but deliberately wobbly, as a child might. “Oh dear, it has been a while.”

He didn’t know why he was twitting John so much. He was angry, angry at himself and his situation, at his own helplessness, and John was nearby. Good enough for Sherlock.

But it felt so good to _move_.

“Wait, wait, we’re missing something,” he said. He opened his bag and found his sound system; a set of speakers, tiny but good quality sound. He jammed his ipod into the port, and clicked play. Tchaikovsky – perfect.

He began to dance, a mocking dance. A child’s version of ballet – mincing, prancing, excessively pretty. “Perhaps they’ll ask me to perform the Sugar Plum Fairy. What do you think? Do you like it? Do I-”

“Stop it,” John snapped.

Sherlock stopped before he could remember to be contrary. John stood and limped to him until he was in Sherlock’s face, his face hard and dark with fury.

“Listen, smartarse. I don’t know what the hell happened to make Pavlović so pissed off with you, but I don’t care. I honestly haven’t the first clue why I’m here. Clearly you’re well enough to be up and about, and enough to be a complete arsehole, which I’m guessing is your normal state of being. I am a doctor. Not a – ballet master, not a babysitter, not a security guard or what have you. I assumed they wanted me about in case you keeled over again, but that doesn’t explain why my wife and I are locked up as well. I have patients back home that I should be taking care of, but no, I’m here watching you act like an idiot. You’re here to dance, apparently. So dance.”

John turned and stomped back to his chair. He sat and faced Sherlock, his jaw clenching.  

Sherlock’s mind was white and buzzing. “You think I don’t want to go home as well?” he said quietly.

John’s eyes darted to the camera, then back to Sherlock. The lines in his face softened, but Sherlock turned his face away.

“I have a life back home. A flat. A career. Actually, I’m supposed to be in Tokyo right now, rehearsing for _Giselle_. Then I was to come back to London and open the season with _Le Corsair_. But I’m here instead. And all because five years ago I did a favour for my-”

Sherlock stopped himself in time from saying ‘my brother’. The ever present camera would love to have evidence like that from his own mouth.

“- And then my plane crashed, which wasn’t fun either, I’d like to remind you. It was terrifying. Now I’m trapped in a city that I really don’t want to be in. I have no money, no passport, no way to contact my manager, who must be worried sick. She may even have been told I’m dead, for all I know. I have to give a performance I did not agree to, that I wasn’t given much of a choice about. But if that’s what it takes to get me out of here, I will. But you’ll understand if I don’t feel like dancing at the moment.”

He barely kept his voice from cracking on the last sentence, but forced himself through the emotion. To his fury, John’s face changed to pity, and suddenly Sherlock couldn’t bear it. He turned away. “I’m going to have a shower.”

He stalked off to the far end of the studio. Once he knew he was out of sight, he leaned against the wall and laid his face against the cool tiles. Stupid, stupid, stupid. While he was partly pleased at putting John back into his place, he knew that he had just exposed his vulnerability, not just in front of the cameras, but in front of John – a man whose motivation and purpose he hadn’t yet figured out. Hadn’t he learned his lesson yet about not underestimating the man?

Sherlock sighed, and walked further into the shower room. No cameras, thank God; they would give him a certain amount of modesty, though he wouldn’t take a bet that there were no microphones.

There was a line of five shower stalls, fortunately all clean; he wondered how recently the studio had been used. He turned on the shower at the far end, watching the water catch the sunlight.

Sunlight.

Sherlock looked up and saw a window, about ten feet above the floor.

He smiled for the first time in days.

 


	9. Rite of Spring

Sherlock stripped off the hoodie he wore and hung it on a hook near the doorway. If John or the guard came to check on him, hopefully the hoodie would reinforce the idea that he was having a shower and give him some privacy. That might give him enough time to get away.

He took a running jump at the dividing wall between the showers and the rest of the dressing room, catching the top of the wall. He pulled himself up, pushing his feet against the slippery tiles. Then it was a simple matter of walking along the wall to the narrow ledge that led to the window, then crawling the rest of the way to the window.

The window wasn’t even locked. He grinned, but reminded himself to not underestimate the situation, and peered out.

He looked out over the roof of the building. There was a platform about five by five feet, then a short distance down to the arch of the roof. He worked his body out of the small window, grateful for his natural flexibility and strength. Looking around, he saw only other houses, their chimneys puffing white smoke, and the wintery sun.

He let himself down off the platform to the ridge of the roof. Fortunately the weather had been dry for a few days; if there had been rain, the roof would be slippery and dangerous. As it was, it would take all of his concentration to balance as he walked the ridge.

He focused on his feet and the short distance ahead of him. He moved quickly but carefully, using his arms to maintain his balance. Shingle by shingle he made his way across the length of the roof. As he approached the far end, he could see the top edge of a downspout, and grinned, realizing that that was his route down to the ground and safety.

He reached the end of the building, and glanced down. His breath stopped, and he quickly lay down to hide himself against the surface of the roof. At the corner of the building, right where the downspout ended, one of the ubiquitous black cars was parked; Sherlock could see the silhouettes of two men sitting inside. They didn’t appear to have noticed him, but there was no way he could get down the downspout without their seeing him.

Cursing quietly into the rough shingle, Sherlock turned his head and looked down the other side of the building. No car, but no downspout either. The building was several stories high, and a jump would only merit him a broken leg, and he’d still be captured by the morons in the car; all they had to do was walk to the other side of the building and pick him up.

What an ignominious end. Sherlock wanted to howl in rage and frustration.

Instead he turned as cautiously as he could. Now that he knew they were there, he couldn’t take the risk of walking and being seen, so he crawled back the way he had come.

It felt like failure of the greatest degree to reverse his steps, to climb back up the platform and back into the window. Only a few minutes ago the window had meant escape, it had meant triumph; now it was defeat to walk back into his prison.

He slid down the tile wall back into the shower area, the impact of his fall echoing up through his legs. With that impact came waves of anger, disappointment, frustration, helplessness. He was trapped, surrounded at every turn. Pavlović, damn him, had constructed his trap well. Sherlock couldn’t rely upon the usual idiocy that generally surrounded him – he had to admit to his jailer’s cleverness.

He took off his clothes and stepped under the shower, partly to give truth to his original lie for coming back here, and also to wash off the sweat and adrenaline of his attempted escape. He watched the water go down the drain, and worked to prevent his hope from going with it. He had to keep sharp; hopelessness would keep him from seeing opportunities.

He towelled off and redressed, slicking his hair back with his fingers. As the drains finished gurgling, he heard a sound coming from the studio – music, and a sharp, arrhythmic tapping. He walked quietly back into the studio and stood in the doorway in amazement.

John was dancing.

He had stripped off his jumper and was down to his vest. He was wearing a pair of tap shoes that were clearly old and had seen better days. He had clearly been dancing for some time – his vest was dark and stained, and his face was ruddy and sweaty from exertion.

The music was unfamiliar to Sherlock, a kind of rock and bluegrass harmonic style, but there was a drive and anger behind the music that belied the major key.

_Weep little lion man,_

_You're not as brave as you were at the start_

John was slightly hunched over, as if concentrating completely on his dancing. His hands were clenched into fists, and tension bridged across his shoulders, but below his hips his legs were loose, relaxed, and yet absolutely in control.

Sherlock had seen tap dancers before, but never in the style he was witnessing now. Typically when he had seen tap dancers they danced with a wide, superficial smile and an ‘ _ain’t life grand’_ kind of attitude that grated against Sherlock’s nerves.

But John was tapping both with and against the rhythm of the song. He was dancing out the rage in the music and the lyrics with his feet and his whole body. He was using dance to lay his emotions out raw, allowing anger and frustration to take control of his body, from his head to his feet in staccato taps, hard and fast and as angry as machine gun fire.

_But it was not your fault but mine_

_And it was your heart on the line_

_I really fucked it up this time_

_Didn’t I my dear_

Sweat was pearled across John’s forehead and upper lip, and the back of his vest was dark with sweat. John’s jaw was set with what seemed like anger, but there was release and joy in his face as well. His whole body expressed both rage and happiness at being able to voice himself fully, even if he was alone and far from his birthplace.

Sherlock watched him with acute interest, and a dawning realization that John Watson had been trapped well before Sherlock had arrived at his home.

Something shifted inside Sherlock. He knew now that John might not be an ally, but now he knew he wasn’t an enemy either.

The song ended, and John leaned over, hands on knees, panting. Sweat rolled off his cheeks and nose and to the floor. Sherlock stepped quietly into the room, not wanting to startle John. At the sound of his step on the hard wood of the studio, John turned to look at him, then straightened.

“Sorry,” John said. His chin lifted, perhaps in defiance.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Sherlock said.

John gestured at the stereo, still breathing heavily. “I saw that my iPod fit in the port,” he said. “I just – I wanted – hope that’s okay.”

“I didn’t know you danced.”

John wiped at his forehead, grinning at the amount of sweat there. “It’s been a while.”

Sherlock stepped back into the shower room and grabbed a towel. He walked over to John and gave it to him. John nodded in thanks, and they went to sit on the bench. Something had changed between them; Sherlock no longer perceived John as someone following him, watching his every move, but perhaps someone with whom he could stand, shoulder to shoulder.

“When they said you would be spending time at a rehearsal studio, I took the risk and brought my old shoes. Thought I might get a chance.”

“And you did,” Sherlock said. “Maybe you should put on the show.”

John laughed. “No, they’re not interested in me. I’m too rusty anyway.”

“Didn’t look rusty to me.”

John nodded his thanks, then pressed his lips together. “I don’t get much opportunity to dance, at home.”

In a flash, Sherlock remembered Maja’s comment to him when they learned he was a ballet dancer, about ballet being _real_ dancing. He remembered the flash of pain on John’s face, and saw at once why John didn’t get the chance to dance at home. Maja clearly disapproved, likely teasing John whenever he cleared the carpets from the floor and tried to tap. No wonder he had stopped, no wonder he had now taken the opportunity when he could.

Suddenly the failure of his escape attempt didn’t sting as much. “Bring them again tomorrow,” he said. “We can practice together.”

“I’d just get in your way,” John said, turning away.

“Big studio,” Sherlock replied. “Room enough for two dancers.”

“I’m not-”

“Yes, you are,” Sherlock said, and John’s head snapped back to him, incredulity on his face.

Sherlock extended a hand. “A dancer knows a dancer."

John hesitated, then grinned, and shook Sherlock’s hand.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the astonishing Gregory Hines tap solo from White Nights that inspired this scene: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VbxI3K8GnpU
> 
> The song John dances to is "Little Lion Man" by Mumford and Sons.
> 
> @CaptiveRiptide did this amazing blend of the Gregory Hines clip with the Mumford and Sons - enjoy! https://youtu.be/lO61s-hmxoA


	10. Glass Pieces

John and Sherlock were quiet in the car on the way back to the flat, but Sherlock was smiling inwardly to himself. John seemed to take up more room in the car than he had on the way out; sitting taller, shoulders wider. He held his cane, tapping absently on the floor with it. When they had left the studio, Sherlock had passed him the cane, but John carried it loosely rather than leaning on it. Sherlock wondered at John’s injuries which had made the cane necessary in the first place, but realized that there would be no private time when he could ask.

He thought of John’s quiet, “Thank you,” at the studio, as they leaned over to pick up their respective bags.

John seemed to remember himself as they were let out of the car, using his cane again but not heavily. Clearly he was as aware of the cameras as Sherlock was.

As they came up the elevator, they could hear shouting – male voices barking orders, and Maja’s voice, high and distressed. Sherlock glanced at John, and saw his face drawn into worry, his body shifting into a defensive stance.

As the elevator doors opened on the flat, they saw Maja pleading with Pavlović in the middle of the sitting room.

“What the hell is going on?” John barked.

Pavlović looked over at them, and smiled in a way that made Sherlock grit his teeth. “She’s going away,” Pavlović said, “right now.”

“Why? What for?” John snapped.

“Ask him,” Pavlović said, dipping his head to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s stomach dropped. Pavlović grabbed Maja by the arm and pulled her to the elevator as she screamed. John advanced on Pavlović but was quickly held back by two of the guards.

“John,” Maja shrieked.

“What are you talking about?” John shouted.

“Ask Mr. Holmes about his little excursion today,” Pavlović said, and the elevator doors closed. The last thing Sherlock saw was Maja’s terrified eyes.

The two guards shoved John back into the centre of the room, then left, closing the door behind them. The click of the lock was loud in the room.

John banged on the door for a useless moment, then rushed to the window.

“Stay calm! Maja!  _Mirni! Mirni!_ ” he shouted.

Sherlock heard a car door slam, and the screech of brakes as it drove off.

In the next second, faster than he ever thought possible, John had crossed to Sherlock, grabbed him by the shirt and pushed him against the wall. The pictures rattled with the force of it.

“What was he talking about? Hm?” John said. John was in Sherlock’s face, his own red and veins throbbing. “What is he saying? Why did he take Maja?”

Sherlock closed his eyes, swallowed back his nausea. “I – I tried to get out. Today. Window in the shower room. I couldn’t get far-”

John’s left fist smashed across his face, and Sherlock went down.

“You did _what_?”

Sherlock tried to get to his hands and knees, but his head was ringing too much.

“You stupid shit!” John screamed. “It’s not just you anymore! Somehow, I don’t know how, but somehow now I’m responsible for your idiot arse. Did you know that?”

John knelt and grabbed Sherlock by his shirt, pulling him up to his eye level.

“Can you deign to raise your head and realize there’s people apart from you in the world? My wife, who has done _nothing_ , is in danger because of you! Do you realize that?”

“I’m sorry – I’m sorry,” Sherlock panted. “I didn’t-”

“If anything happens to her, I-”

Suddenly all the fight went out of John. He released Sherlock, and Sherlock slumped back to the floor. He took a gulp of air, then another, and looked up at John. John was still kneeling, his face in his hands.

“She had _nothing_ to do with this,” John whispered.

Sherlock dragged himself to his feet. He stared down at John for a moment, his jaw tightening.

“I don’t want to hear another word of this,” Sherlock said.

John’s head snapped up, and Sherlock could see anger rising again in his eyes. Sherlock strode over to his bag and pulled out his stereo. He slammed it onto a side table, glaring at John.

“I don’t want to hear your whinging for another second,” he said. He plugged in his iPod, pressed play. Beethoven – excellent. He turned it up as high as he dared and turned back to John.

“Listen to me very carefully,” he said quietly to John. Rage and confusion were fighting for dominance over John’s expression. Sherlock raised his fist, and spoke under the music. “We’re putting on a show for the cameras now, and the music is loud enough that they can’t hear us. Pretend you’re still angry with me.”

“I don’t have to pretend, mate,” John said, his mouth twisted in a dangerous smile.

“I am very sorry, John,” Sherlock said. He worked to keep his voice gentle and soft, while keeping his face contorted with anger. “I did not anticipate that they would punish me by punishing you and Maja, but I swear that they will find no such excuse again. I will not endanger you or Maja again, and I will work to get her back to you, all right?”

John was completely still, and Sherlock wondered if he was able to understand through the waves of his emotions. He watched his eyes carefully; watched a decision being made.

“Goddamn it!” John shouted, and grabbed a fistful of Sherlock’s shirt.

“I understand, Sherlock,” he said quietly. “If I were in your shoes, I would have taken the opportunity to try to get out too.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, pushing John’s hands away.

John stood stock still, his fists clenching, unclenching, clenching. “Why did they do it, though? Take Maja?”

“I don’t know. I don’t like not knowing,” Sherlock said. “I suspect that their ultimate intention is _this_ ,” and he pushed John slightly. “They don’t want me to have allies, so they drive something between us. Make us enemies. They want me to have nowhere to turn.”

“Yes. That makes sense.” John pushed back at Sherlock. “So what’s the next step?”

“Not sure. For now I’ll behave myself – no more escape attempts. Dance. Be the perfect little puppet.”

“You’re no one’s puppet, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked at John, and something settled inside him. He _did_ have an ally now, and it was the first moment of comfort he’d had in this whole situation.

John’s mouth twisted again, and this time Sherlock saw that John was trying not to grin. He nodded sharply, and strode away from Sherlock towards his bedroom.

“I’m going to bed,” he shouted. “Turn that crap music off.”

Sherlock saw John smile at him, very slightly, before slamming the door shut.

 


	11. The Blue Dahlia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Brief mention of John’s father’s homophobia and abuse, and some homophobic slurs.

John was quiet the next day – at least, he didn’t speak. He made a lot of noise slamming down coffee cups and dishes, and his glares at Sherlock spoke volumes, but he said nothing. Sherlock was silent as well, but tried to act suitably cowed. He stayed quiet when the driver arrived at 9:00am sharp, and John grabbed his bag and cane before huffing out the door ahead of Sherlock. Sherlock shouldered his own bag and followed, his head down.

When they arrived at the studio again, John threw his bag in a corner and sat on a bench.

“No tricks today,” he said to Sherlock, pointing a sharp finger at Sherlock.

“No,” Sherlock replied.

Sherlock set up his stereo again, and set his iPod in. Obviously they wouldn’t allow him to keep his phone, but he supposed he should be grateful that he still had this.

His own voice came out of the speakers. “Mind the crescendo at the sixteenth bar – brandy please.”

“The hell was that?” John said.

Sherlock fiddled a moment more with the device. “It’s a recorder too. I make notes for the conductor and send it as an MP3. Here we go.”

He cued up his favourite warm up music – Vivaldi’s _Four Seasons_. As soon as the music began, John spoke softly, just under the volume of the music.

"Do you think there’s mics on these cameras too?”

“I assume so,” Sherlock murmured. “Not worth the risk.”

“No. Do you think we should argue some more? For the cameras, I mean.”

Sherlock hid his grin by taking his hoodie off. “Only if you want to. I actually do want to warm up – it’s been several days now.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” John said, giving him the finger.

Sherlock pointedly turned his back on John, taking hold of the barre and cracking his neck a few times. Then he began a series of slow _pliés_ and _tendus_.

“This is how you warm up, is it?”

“As I said, it’s been several days. I have to start slow at first, or I risk pulling a muscle from disuse. But yes, this is how I warm up. Have done every day of my life since I was four.”

“Even Christmas?”

“Especially Christmas. I was in The Nutcracker every year between ages five and eleven.”

In the mirror, Sherlock saw John’s eyebrows rise. “You started performing when you were five?”

“Of course. I have progressed somewhat since I played Mouse Number Four.”

Despite the difficulty of the situation as a whole, it was good to move again. Sherlock could feel his muscles loosening up, letting go of the tension of his recuperation and forced inactivity. It felt like stepping back into his own skin. He began to escalate his movements, pushing to rediscover his body’s limits again.

“What do you call that?”

“What?” Sherlock said to John’s reflection.

“That move. Surely it can’t be called ‘bendy knees’.”

Sherlock snorted, and covered it with a sneer. “ _Plié_. And this,” he bent his knees more fully, his arse nearly touching his heels, “ _grand_ _plié_.”

“French?”

“Of course.”

“What’s it mean?”

“Um… ‘bend’, actually. And _grand_ _plié_ is,” Sherlock felt himself flushing, “big bend.”

“And that?”

“ _Tendu_.”

“Which means ‘point’, I suppose.”

“Well, yes.”

“Very innovative, those ballet people.”

Sherlock sneered again. “For God’s sake, don’t make me laugh. Can’t maintain the illusion of hating each other if you make me laugh.”

“Sorry.”

Sherlock began to stretch out his muscles, now that they were warmed. “Did you receive any training? For your dancing?”

“Sort of.” John fiddled with the head of his cane. “My father didn’t – he didn’t think boys should dance. ‘Only faggots dance,’ he’d say. Boys should just play rugby and football and so forth. I played them, but kept going to films with Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire and Gregory Hines, that kind of thing.

“My sister, on the other hand, had to take lessons, and of course didn’t want to. I started offering to take her to her lessons, and sat in the back and followed along as best I could. After a few weeks, the teacher told me to stand up and dance too. She never said a word about paying for the lessons. Eventually we traded places, Harry and me – she sat in the back and I danced. Which worked until Dad happened to pass the studio on the way to the bar.”

“He didn’t react well?”

“Beat the shit out of me, to be honest.”

Sherlock looked up at John, and saw him smiling without humour. There were miles of pain in his eyes.

“So I kept up on my own. Practiced in my room when Da wasn’t home. Hid my tap shoes like other boys hide their porn. Left home as soon as I could, but couldn’t earn enough money dancing – couldn’t earn any, in fact. So I joined Her Majesty’s Army.”

Sherlock looked over at John again - the way he held his body, the tension around his left shoulder. If he hadn’t had family support, if he hadn’t had a lot of money to have another career, he would have stayed in the army. He wouldn’t have left the army willingly, so... _oh_.

“You were wounded.”

John just nodded. “Enough about me,” he said shortly. “You’re the star around here. Tell me about yourself.”

Sherlock knew an evasion when he saw one. “As I said, I started at four. Someone saw promise in me, and my parents got me into the right schools. Got into the Royal Ballet School at ten.”

“Did you ever want to do anything else?”

“There was never anything else for me,” Sherlock said. “This is it. I didn’t want to do anything else. I,” Sherlock’s eyes cut to the camera, “I did some ...other things, as a favour, but I never wanted to do anything else but dance. Everything else is just a distraction.”

John hummed, and Sherlock heard some wistfulness in the sound. Hearing John’s story, he realized how lucky he had been: parents to transport him to lessons, wealth to pay for them, teachers to push him.

“Come on,” he said impulsively. “Put those shoes on. Never too late to learn.”

John glanced up at the corner of the room. “What about the cameras?”

“Pretend you’re making fun of me then. I’ll do the same, and learn the time step while I’m at it.”

**

“You are such a hack. I can’t believe they let you on stage.”

“Shut. Up.”

Sherlock had a fine sheen of sweat over his body, and felt better than he had in ages. John had been playing his role well, mocking Sherlock’s every move, but Sherlock noticed that every trace of John’s limp had disappeared. He had a feeling that the cane would be left behind, either in the studio or at the hotel, before the end of the week.

The doors at the entrance of the studio opened, and both he and John turned to see. Sherlock thought for one moment that it was their driver come to take them back to the hotel, and wondered where the time had gone.

Instead, it opened to reveal a guard, who stepped aside to admit a woman, dressed expensively and impeccably, her hair drawn up into a chignon.

The guard turned to Sherlock. “Gospođa Janina Nikolić, Director of the National Theatre.”

It took a moment, then her face registered with Sherlock. He remembered her ingratiating smile, her leaning on his arm, five years earlier.

“Janina,” he breathed in astonishment.

Janina stepped just inside the room, fixing Sherlock with an appraising look. After a moment, she half turned her head to John without breaking her gaze at Sherlock.

“Would you excuse us?” she said.

John startled. “Right. Sorry. I’ll just – I’ll be out here, I suppose,” he said.

He walked as quietly as he could in his tap shoes to the hallway, and the guard shut the door behind them.

Sherlock snapped the music off. Silence rang through the studio as they stared at each other.

“You’re looking – well,” Sherlock said.

“As are you,” Janina said evenly.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” Sherlock said. “I didn’t know you’d been appointed Director.”

“Yes. Well. It took some time before they would trust me.”

“Why wouldn’t – oh.” Sherlock’s stomach dropped.

“ _’Oh’_ , indeed,” she said, her voice cutting like steel. “Yes, after your little stunt, the police were quite convinced that I must have helped you in some way. Several weeks of questioning, of course. They threatened prison. The company nearly fired me. No one would believe me when I told them that you had said nothing to me. Absolutely nothing – except promises to make introductions for me in London.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t-”

“Of course you didn’t,” Janina said. “It didn’t occur to you that you were leaving a mess behind, did you?”

Sherlock was shocked into silence.

She smiled, the anger disappearing from her face and voice immediately. “Not to worry, Sherlock dear. I understand that you’re here to… make compensation?”

“I suppose you could call it that.”

“That’s what I’m here to discuss, of course.” She strode forward, extending one elegantly manicured hand. “Your star turn. Your performance.”

“All right,” Sherlock said. He pulled out a chair for her to sit. “Part of the job as Director of the National Theatre, I suppose.”

“Well, of course, I could have delegated my artistic manager, or ballet master, or resident choreographer. But their English is negligible, and besides, I wanted to see you again, Sherlock.” Her voice deepened into a purr. “It’s been too long.”

 _Whatever it takes to get out of here_ , Sherlock thought, mentally gritting his teeth.  “Indeed,” he said. He pulled a second chair away from the wall and sat opposite her. “What will it be then? _Giselle_? I suppose you’ll play Giselle herself; you’re too important to play a secondary role like the Queen of the Willies now.”

A smile broke over her face, one mixed with delight and bitterness. “Oh no, dear. Not _Giselle_. Is that what you thought? Oh my. No, dear.”

He frowned – what was she on about? “ _Romeo and Juliet_ then? _Les Sylphides_? Or-”

“Any production with a large _corps de ballet_?” she said. “Oh no. The powers that be don’t wish to risk that, apparently. Sherlock Holmes is too grand of a dancer to share the stage with anyone. It will be a solo performance.”

Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face.

“And of course the best stage crew in Serbia. It’s a pity none of them speak English. And while I know you speak passable Serb, they will all be instructed to not speak to you at all. They don’t want anyone to interfere with your concentration.”

Janina uncrossed her legs, crossed them again the other way. The smile on her face was still there; she was clearly enjoying herself. Sherlock thought he was going to be sick.

“Unfortunately not the big theatre, darling. It will be a studio space, private property, you see, but it’s quite lovely. It seats about one hundred. I’m told that the highest officials in the land will be invited.”

“All sworn to secrecy, of course,” Sherlock whispered.

“Of course.”

All avenues to get word back to England or his brother, cut off. “You can’t – you can’t,” he said.

“Certainly I can,” Janina said, examining her fingernails, ignoring Sherlock’s distress completely. “I was instrumental in the planning, you see. They welcomed my ideas.”

 _A puppet_ , he thought dully. No way out, no way for the nightmare to end. Forever dancing for the glitterati of Serbia, no chance of getting out. 

“I’ll leave you to think about your performance, Sherlock,” Janina said as she stood. “When will you be ready to perform - shall we say two weeks Friday? Perfect.”

In one desperate lunge, he reached out and grabbed her forearm. “Janina. Please. Help me.”

She shook her arm free, and stood tall. “Sherlock, it gives me great pleasure to say: not a chance in hell.”

She walked unhurriedly to the door, leaving Sherlock standing in shock in the middle of the room. As she opened the door, Sherlock caught a glimpse of John’s face. He was pale, his forehead creased, his eyes wide and worried. Sherlock could tell that John had heard every word.

 


	12. Interplay

It was a different kind of silence on the way home. It was not the silence of not speaking, of not revealing anything to the driver or guards that they had been holding up until now, but rather a strained silence; Sherlock heavy with the sudden weight of the hopelessness of his situation, and John aware, cautious. It was palpable, with hard edges.

Sherlock didn’t think he could bear it if Pavlović was at the flat. He wasn’t sure if he could cope with the sight of the man, with the smirk that said that he had won.

Fortunately, he was not. The guards paid no more attention to them than usual as they were escorted up the elevator and into the flat. As the doors of the flat closed behind them, John let out a huge sigh, and Sherlock wondered if John had been worried about the same thing.

Sherlock realized dully that he had not thought of Maja, whether she would have been brought back. She wasn’t in the flat; clearly their punishment would go on for some time more.

There was a sumptuous meal laid out on the table – roast beef, potatoes, peas, Yorkshire puddings. The scents combined in Sherlock’s nose, reminding him of Sundays at his parent’s home. He realized suddenly that _this_ was Pavlović’s smirk; a taunting reminder of the home he was likely never going to see again. His stomach jerked and turned to stone.

“Good God,” John murmured beside him. He looked up at Sherlock. “Are you – are you hungry?”

“No,” Sherlock said, his voice flat and colourless. “Think I’ll have a shower.”

Sherlock turned away and towards his room, dropping his bag with loose fingers on the bed. His head was full of a dull buzzing noise, and he couldn’t think, couldn’t feel. He would shower, and go to bed, and sleep and sleep and sleep, and if he was lucky, perhaps he wouldn’t wake to this nightmare.

He stepped into the bathroom, stripping off his shirt. He could still smell the sweat on it, the sweat from dancing this morning, from the thing that he loved most in the world. Now dance was tainted for him, something he was forced to do. How long would it take before it was forever ruined for him, until it became something he hated? He threw his shirt into the corner with more force than necessary, and rested his cheek against the cool of the tile. Then he turned on the water, tipping the faucet over to the hottest temperature he could tolerate.

The door of the bathroom banged open, and he startled. _What could they possibly want with me now?_ he thought, then saw that it was John.

His brows knotted in confusion as John barged into the room.

“I won’t stand for this, I won’t,” John shouted. “You sick bastard.”

“John – I-”

John strode right up into his personal space, and pushed him against the wall, leaning into his face.

“There’s only microphones in the bathrooms, no cameras,” John murmured. “I checked. And the water will drown out any sound. Listen carefully.” John stared at Sherlock, his eyes steady and sharp, and Sherlock felt his initial shock ebb away, leaving only confusion.

“There are many trees in a forest,” John said clearly.

Sherlock’s jaw dropped in astonishment as his brain struggled to comprehend what he had heard. He hadn’t heard the code phrase from someone else’s mouth in years – and from the person he least expected to hear it from.

“And you can lose yourself in a forest,” he answered automatically. “You,” he breathed.

John nodded. “Yeah. You said something about doing a favour for your brother five years ago, a favour that pissed Pavlović off to that degree. Then with what that woman said today, I began to think that maybe…”

“You’re MI6?” Sherlock said. “You - you weren’t the man I met.”

“No, that was James. I was deep undercover here, procuring information and data, to get over the border. James was a courier, and, I guess, so were you.”

“He was assassinated, my brother said.”

Sadness crept across John’s expression. “Yeah. He was meeting with our prime contact and they were both gunned down at the square in New Palace. I had to go to ground, and when I eventually stuck my nose out, I couldn’t track down any of my contacts. And I was so deep here I couldn’t reach anyone back home. I think MI6 assumed I had been killed, too. I couldn’t leave the country or they’d have been on me. I’ve been stuck here since.”

Sherlock’s mind was racing. His whole world perspective had been turned upside down. “John – could Pavlović know? Could that be why he placed me with you?”

“If he knew, he would have had me killed ages ago,” John said drily. “I really _am_ a doctor – that was my cover, working in emergency rooms, it’s an excellent way to pass information. And I really did save him from a heart attack, before I knew who he was. I don’t think he knows.”

Sherlock was still shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe this.”

“You’re MI6 as well?”

“No. It’s the family business – my father, my mother; my brother is quite high in the ranks there – but I never officially joined. I insisted on dancing instead. But sometimes, when I’m touring in the right place, I’ll act as a courier. Belgrade was the only place it had gone south. I’ve never done it since.”

“Too dangerous.”

Sherlock looked at John and said plainly, “I just wanted to dance. That’s all I ever wanted to do.”

John’s mouth twisted, and he stepped even closer to Sherlock. “Listen to me,” he hissed. “I swear to God, Sherlock, I will get you out of here. All right? I won’t let it happen, let them keep you as their… pet, their wind-up toy. _I will get you out_. Do you understand?”

Sherlock’s skin rippled up into gooseflesh, from John’s intensity and his proximity. He saw John’s skin responding in turn, saw his eyes dilate. He suddenly wanted to pull John even closer.

He shook himself, forced himself to focus.

“And Maja?” he said. Saying her name made him feel ill, and he didn’t know why.

John’s face went utterly blank. “She knows nothing about all this. I was all alone out here and – she doesn’t know.”

“We’ll get her back, John.”

John nodded, once. His head dipped, and for a brief moment, he rested his forehead on Sherlock’s bare collarbone.

Then he turned and walked out of the bathroom, shouting, “And don’t use all the hot water again, you twat.”

 


	13. Études

The next morning John stomped out of his bedroom just before nine, his face framed in a frown. “Is that driver here? Let’s get this over with.”

They were silent as they went down the elevator, but Sherlock saw John glance at the surveillance screens in the lobby side room as they passed. His facial expression never changed.

In the studio, after the guard left them alone, John waved at Sherlock’s bag. “All right, put on that stupid music of yours and get to work. Two weeks, she said. By then, I hope to God I’m rid of you.”

Sherlock followed John’s lead and put his stereo together, making his movements snappish and irritated. He put on some Brahams – familiar enough for him to dance without thinking, but loud enough to allow them to speak. He turned to the barre and began his morning warmup. John meandered over to the barre as though he had all the time in the world, leaned against the wall by Sherlock, radiating boredom and impatience.

“Right,” he said quietly. “Can you hear me at this volume?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I think I’ve narrowed down our possibilities. I don’t think it’s feasible to get out from here, as you already discovered. During transportation would be possible, we could just jump out of the car and make enough of a public fuss – shouting and that – that they would have to leave us to it. However, as you already pointed out, they’ve modified the car so it’s impossible to get out. It’s not just a child lock, they’ve removed the handles, so no good there.”

“From the flat, then?”

“Yup. Cameras in your bedroom?”

“Yes.”

“Mine too, but they didn’t seem to worry as much about mine. I saw the screens in the lobby. They’re mostly focused on the bed – I think they were hoping for a little show. I should have made more of a fuss when we first arrived, but with Maja gone it’s less believable. Still. There’s a gap on the camera pan of a few inches by the window. What I’ll do is gradually move the camera at night, a little bit at a time, so they won’t notice it moving. When we’re ready, we should be able to hug the walls and get out the window without being seen.”

Sherlock marvelled that John had figured out the angles and possible hiding spots in his room from a single glance at the surveillance room screens. He was realizing more and more that John’s place in MI6 was well-earned.

“Right. The guards?” he said as he began his stretching routine.

“Yeah. Of course there are guards below the window. I watched the shifts last night. There are a couple of guards that play chess between two and three in the morning. They really get into it, so if we’re quiet we should be all right.”

“Out the window and then…?”

“There’s a fire escape on the building opposite. One of us will have to jump for it.”

“Show me tonight. I’ll storm into your room to yell at you for something and then look.”

John was silent, and Sherlock looked up from his stretch. John was staring at him with an odd expression. “What? What is it?”

John shook his head ruefully. “You know, people aren’t supposed to be able to put their head down by their ankle like that.”

Sherlock scoffed. “ _People_.”

**

“Where’s my stereo? You little shit. You can’t just take my things.”

“Calm down, princess. It’s here. I just needed to listen to some real music, get that stupid classical music out of my head. Can I not get a moment of privacy?”

“Not if I can’t have control over my own possessions. This whole situation is bad enough without you getting your grubby little hands on my property.”

“Listen, arsehole.” John leaned in, finger in Sherlock’s face, then spoke quietly. “There, you see? That iron girder sticking out on the west wall? Do you think you can make that jump?”

“Yes, I think so. Then step across to the two others beyond that, then to the fire escape.”

“That’s about a metre and a half. You’re not a monkey.”

“I’ll practice at the studio. If I go with a rope or something, then I can tie it to the fire escape and you can crawl over.”

“We’ll have to make one.”

“Out of what?”

John grinned. “Already started one. In the bathroom, out of towels. Which reminds me, can I borrow one from yours?”

**

They learned that Beethoven was the best for covering their voices at the studio. Bach was good as well, but John didn’t know the music as well as Sherlock, and would not be prepared for the _pianissimo_ parts of a piece. He nearly got caught talking about the route from the flat to the British counsel but quickly covered it up by shouting at Sherlock and storming out of the studio. The guard made him come back into the room.

**

“You’re not really using your cane any more, are you?”

John tapped said cane absently against his leg. “No, I suppose not. S’funny. It doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it used to.”

“What happened?”

“Got grazed by a bullet… when James was killed.”

Sherlock was silent, letting John have space. Obviously the memory was painful.

“Yeah, um. James was meeting with our handler. We always met in public; in this case it was an outdoor café in the square. We thought that meeting in public protected us. But there was a sniper. I was late, just walking into the square, when James and our handler went down. I turned around and tried to get out, but I suppose the sniper spotted me. Fortunately he just winged me. As soon as I heard the bullet I ran, and didn’t realize I was bleeding until I was in the safe house. Stitched myself up. Advantages to being a doctor.”

Sherlock considered how tangled this whole mess was; how one event had precipitated everything that was happening now. He, Sherlock, was a dancer who had just been a pawn in a game he hadn’t even cared about, and now look at how many lives had been affected.

“And your shoulder?”

“Hm?”

“Your shoulder. You hold it stiffly when you walk. Less so when you dance, so the injury was more than just getting grazed.”

“Ah. No, that was in Kandahar…”

**

“God, if I never hear another violin in my life, I’ll be grateful. I’m sick to death of your music. I have to listen to it all day at the studio while you dance your stupid dances, I don’t want to hear it here at the flat.”

“Well, I’m sick to death of you. Don’t you dare put that rock - pop - whatever it is - crap on my stereo. Don’t you…”

“Powerful speakers you’ve got here. Nice and loud.”

“You bastard, don’t you-”

“Right, that’s good. Now look, we’ll be best to go through Pionirski Park. There are lots of trees and bushes in there, lots of places to hide. But once we’re on the south side, we should stay on the main road…”

**

“How is the rope coming along?”

“Not bad. About seven feet, it should be at least ten. It’s strong; towels have remarkably resilient fibres.”

“The performance is set for Friday.”

“Right.” John was quiet for a moment. Sherlock prepared and performed a series of _pirouettes_ as he waiting for John to sort his thoughts.  “Right. We need to get you out before that.”

“Thursday.”

“Thursday.” John sighed. “I wish I still had my gun.”

“Where is it? Back at home?”

“In the river.”

**

“If you did perform, what would you perform?”

Sherlock ran through a series of _chaînés_ diagonally across the room. “I have a feeling that I could perform the prima ballerina solo from Swan Lake and it wouldn’t really matter.”

John smiled, his face hidden by his hand.

“Likely I’ll perform a solo that was choreographed by Twyla Tharp for Baryshnikov. I danced it last year in New York. No other dancers, so that should make them happy. I could do it in my sleep.”

“Why don’t you do one of your own?”

“What do you mean?”

“Choreograph something of your own. Or improvise. It would be getting a bit of your own back, in a small way.”

Sherlock snorted. “Not my thing, choreography.”

“Oh, you prefer it when people tell you what to do?”

Sherlock glared, then hesitated. “Hm. Touché. Never thought of it that way.”

“So you’ve never tried that? Just fooled around with the steps?”

“No.” He moved into an arabesque, tested the flexibility of his lifted leg, lifted it higher. “Never felt inclined. I was always interested in perfecting the choreography of the pieces I’ve danced.”

“So what are you doing now? Aren’t you just fooling around with the steps?”

Sherlock scowled with an expression that had terrified junior ballerinas. “I am _warming up_ , John.”

John was quiet for a moment, and Sherlock thought that he had retreated, until John spoke again. “And why always the classical music?”

“Because it’s _ballet_ , John. It is an art form evolved during the seventeenth century, reaching its prime in the eighteenth, therefore it is appropriate to be danced to the music from its era.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a tap dancer, and you didn’t see me dancing to ‘Putting on the Ritz’, did you? Dance has to evolve, as you say, to its own time. All dance. Have you never tried dancing to contemporary music?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Contemporary music,” he said with as much scorn as he could muster. 

“I’m sure Bach was considered ‘contemporary’ and ‘modern’ once,” John said. He stood and moved over to Sherlock’s stereo, replacing Sherlock’s iPod with his own. “Let’s try this,” he said, fiddling with the screen. “Call it an experiment.”

Music began to pour out of the small but powerful speakers. Sherlock vaguely recognized the song as something John had played a few times at the flat. “I’ve heard this.”

“Excellent music comprehension. Listen to it through once.”

The drums were primal and spare; the vocals simplistic at first, then developing into a staccato rhythm. Then the chorus broke into a powerful pulse, echoing a strong heartbeat, and the singer and the lyrics reflecting pure, raw emotion.

_Pain_

_You made me a, you made me a believer, believer_

The song ended almost abruptly, and Sherlock wouldn’t admit it but found himself wanting more. “Interesting rhythmic changes,” he said, instead.

“Yeah, that’s why I picked it, thought you might like that. All right, go on.”

“What?”

John gestured at the wide expanse of the studio floor. “Give it a try.”

“To that? I couldn’t possibly.”

“Ah, but you’re Sherlock Holmes, the great dancer. Surely you’re not limited by mere music.”

John’s face reflected bemusement, but Sherlock knew him well enough by now to know he wouldn’t give it up. He grumbled as he made his way to the centre of the floor. “This is a waste of time.”

“Nothing to do with dancing is a waste of time,” John said quietly. Sherlock stared at him, surprised, but instead John ducked his head and pressed play on the stereo.

Sherlock sighed and began to dance. He hadn’t even gotten to the end of the first verse when John stopped the music.

“What?”

John was frowning. “You’re dancing something you’ve already danced.  You showed me that choreography the other day – you said you danced it two years ago.”

“It matches the time signature!” Sherlock said indignantly.

“Not the point of the exercise. You see, I do pay attention to what you do.”

“Never said you didn’t,” Sherlock said, and was surprised at how quietly it came out.

John walked over to him. Sherlock was standing with his arms crossed in pique, and John grabbed his hands and forced his arms to uncross.

“Just try,” he said. His eyes were soft but focused. “Listen. The music will tell your body how to move.”

Sherlock swallowed. He had danced in front of thousands of people, why was he suddenly bashful about this?

But never let it be said that Sherlock Holmes backed down from a challenge.

He nodded, and whispered, “Okay.” He didn’t know why he was whispering. The music was playing, the cameras wouldn’t pick up what he was saying anyway, but he whispered.

John smiled, a half smile twisting up the side of his face, then turned and went back to the bench. He stopped the music and started it again.

_First things first_

_I'ma say all the words inside my head_

_I'm fired up and tired of the way that things have been_

Sherlock closed his eyes and let the music sweep over him, seep into his skin, soak into his muscles. He breathed in, deep, and began to move.

He swayed slightly for the first few measures, then graduated to a more deliberate rocking motion. He stretched, letting his chest swell out, his limbs following more softly; then a withdrawal into himself, squeezing his lungs, his heart.

_Second thing second_

_Don't you tell me what you think that I can be_

_I'm the one at the sail, I'm the master of my sea_

His movement became more erratic, reflecting the staccato rhythm of the singer’s voice. He found himself playing with the beat, playing with the way the cadence of the music threw his body around.

_Seeing the beauty through the_

_Pain_

He lifted his head in a silent roar at the sky, channeling his rage, his helplessness at his situation, at his loss of the freedom and independence he valued so highly. He embodied that independence with sprints ending with a _grand jeté_ , then another, and another, until his legs were throbbing with the impact of landing.

_You made me a, you made me a believer, believer_

_You break me down, you build me up, believer, believer_

He tried dancing with the rhythm of the song, and it felt good. He tried dancing against the rhythm, and it felt good as well.

_Oh let the bullets fly, oh let them rain_

_My life, my love, my drive, it came from_

_Pain_

Sweat was pouring off him, and his left ankle hurt, and his rotator cuff on his shoulder was wrested when he did a leap that spun him sideways, but it was all glorious. Sherlock was dimly aware that he was dancing like he had never done before, in a style he never knew he was capable of.

And he loved it.

_Last things last_

_By the grace of the fire and the flames_

_You're the face of the future, the blood in my veins_

He gathered all the strength in his legs and arms and torso, and let them explode in a huge leap across the floor, his limbs flung wide, making a sacrifice of his body to the air. He landed, rolled, and curled into a ball as the song ended.

Silence fell through the studio. Then he heard John say, very quietly, “Yeah. That’s it.”

Sherlock grinned, but his only response was to roll onto his back and gasp for air.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock dances to Believer by Imagine Dragons.
> 
> I wrote the first draft of this chapter and the next week the Hozier “Movement” video came out, with Sergei Polunin: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OSye8OO5TkM  
> The choreography was almost exactly what I had envisioned for this scene. It was a bit eerie.


	14. Pas de Deux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the rating changes to E!

Sherlock stepped under the spray of water, and his hiss of pleasure at the heat of the shower echoed around the tiles of the studio change room.

His body was wrung out, exhausted, but his mind was quiet in a way it never was after a rehearsal or even a performance. The closest feeling he could compare it to was the day when he first successfully performed multiple _fouettés_. He had had a breakthrough of some sort, but he needed some time to figure out what it was.

Underlying it all was the source of this breakthrough. Sherlock had had teachers throughout his life, of course - teachers who had pushed him, bullied him, forced him to explore the limits of his body. But John, a man he had known just over a week, had challenged his mind, helped him to achieve new heights in dance. This, too, required more thought. 

And more experimentation, of course.

He would take a long bath back at the flat, soak the inevitable soreness out of his muscles, but for now the shower would do. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, letting the water sluice down his body and wash away his sweat.

When he opened his eyes, John was standing in front of him.

Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise. John was fully dressed and standing on the far edge of the shower room, his plaid shirt and jeans sharply dark against the white tiles. Normally if anyone had intruded on Sherlock in the shower, he would have snapped at them, ordered them out. But now, he didn’t.

Dancers tend not to be modest about their bodies. Sherlock had spent his entire career wearing little more than a pair of tights in front of thousands of people, not to mention quick changes backstage when he would frequently be stripped down to just his dance belt with the whole crew rushing around him. He felt no alarm with John seeing him fully naked. Despite his nudity, he did not move to cover himself.

But under John’s intense gaze, Sherlock’s cock began to harden.

John’s Adam’s apple jumped as he swallowed, and he nodded minutely. John’s eyes flickered away from Sherlock’s, to the upper corners of the room, and Sherlock knew he was checking for cameras. John nodded again, almost to himself, and his hands went up to his shirt and began to unbutton.

He stripped off his shirt and laid it on the bench. He was wearing a white singlet, just as he had been when Sherlock had walked in on him tap dancing. Sherlock abruptly recognized that there was more discovered that day than just the realization that John could dance.

The singlet followed the plaid shirt on the bench. Sherlock’s breath was momentarily taken away by the sight of a star-shaped bullet scar on John’s shoulder. John had mentioned being shot during his career as a soldier, in Kandahar, before he joined MI6; Sherlock assumed this was the wound that sent him back from Afghanistan. Seeing it now, the severity of it, he was grateful that John had made it back at all.

John had not broken his gaze with Sherlock. They stared at each other as John took off his belt and unzipped his flies. With every passing moment Sherlock was getting harder, and for a brief second he wondered if he had misjudged, if he was about to be terribly embarrassed, but then John slid off his trousers and pants to reveal his own hard and heavy cock, bobbing in the air as John straightened.

Sherlock swallowed.

John began to walk slowly toward Sherlock. His lips were moving silently, and he knew John was trying to say something while still aware of the guard, not so very far away. As John stepped closer, Sherlock finally heard what he was saying, over and over again.

“Please, Sherlock. Tell me this is all right. Please, Sherlock.”

As soon as he understood, Sherlock reached out to John, his fingers spread wide. “Yes,” he mouthed at John. “Yes, God, yes.”

As soon as John was in reach, Sherlock’s hand gripped at his shoulder and pulled him in close. Their lips met; hard, not gentle. Their hands moved over each other’s body frantically, clawing at backs, shoulders, hips. John’s lips dragged down Sherlock’s jawline and neck, bit at his collarbone hard enough to make him gasp. Sherlock pulled John into the shower’s spray, creating a slick new surface for each other’s skin. He raked his fingers through John’s hair greedily, cradling his face in his hands then dipping in to kiss him ferociously.

Their kissing was more like biting, with desperation, desperation that had been building up without Sherlock being able to name it, deparation to touch, to finally _have_ making them harsh and rough. John’s teeth clamped down on Sherlock’s already swollen bottom lip, nearly hard enough to draw blood, and Sherlock felt an electric charge of arousal slam through his muscles. He pulled John into the cage of his limbs, pulling at him so hard he was sure he left scratch marks on his back.

Suddenly he was laughing, laughing as silently as he could. He laughed at the madness of the situation: trapped in Serbia, an armed guard only a short distance away, and this wonderful, maddening man in his arms who wanted him, wanted him badly enough to risk everything. In the shower of a dance studio.

Confusion flashed briefly across John’s expressive face, then cleared away, and John grinned back. His eyes danced with recognition of Sherlock’s state of mind, and reflecting it. His hand lifted and, gentle for the first time, traced the shape of Sherlock’s face. Sherlock let his eyes close with pleasure, then flew open again as John took his cock into his other hand.

Sherlock gasped, and John caught the sound with his mouth. “Shh,” he whispered in Sherlock’s ear, then sucked on his earlobe. Sherlock forced his own hand to move through the onslaught of sensation, down John’s wet and slippery side, down to John’s cock which was pressing hard into Sherlock’s thigh.

John made a soft growling, humming noise and pushed into Sherlock’s hand with a jerk of his hips. Sherlock’s own cock throbbed in response, and he buried his face in John’s neck, mouthing at the strong pulse he found there. John filled his arms, his hand, perfectly; the heft of John’s body and his cock feeling right in his arms in a way Sherlock had never experienced before. John’s hand was small and delicate, but strong, and was stroking urgently, and Sherlock could already feel the orgasm gathering in the pit of his belly. He tightened his own hand around John’s cock, and found a hardened nub of a nipple with the fingers of his other hand.

John grunted and sighed with a great gust of air, and then he was coming. The cords on John’s neck bulged hard against Sherlock’s lips. Warm streams of come tracked over the back of Sherlock’s hand, droplets landing on his belly. John shuddered with an aftershock, then bit at Sherlock’s collarbone as he sped up his strokes.

John’s lips moved against his throat, but completely silently. Through the mounting tide of sensation Sherlock felt the pattern of John’s words against his skin – “Come for me, come on, come for me-”

Sherlock closed his eyes and came. He was dimly aware of John mouthing, “Yes yes yes,” but blissfully let himself drown in the pleasure.

Gradually his heart rate returned to normal, and John was calming in his arms as well, with each of them twitching as their orgasms reverberated through their muscles. Hands which so recently scrabbled over skin now stroked gently, feather-light, over sensitized skin. Sherlock leaned down and found John’s lips with his own.

They kissed deeply and softly, the urgency passed. Sherlock tried to say everything with his lips and body that he knew he couldn’t say safely out loud – how much John had come to mean to him, how beautiful he found him, how much John had changed him. Then John looked up at him, and Sherlock saw everything he was trying to say reflected back in John’s eyes.

John leaned his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock rested his cheek on the top of John’s head. The water poured down over their bodies, washing away sweat and come.

Sherlock held John close, and felt John’s arms tighten around him in answer. He realized that this was the safest he had felt since he had boarded the plane, so long ago.

 


	15. L'Homme et son désir

The ride back to the flat was silent, as it usually was. John was staring out the window, his hand gripping the head of his cane. Sherlock glanced at him briefly, wanting desperately to drink in the sight of him for minutes, hours, but forced himself to turn away and look out his own window. They had to be more careful than ever now.

Separating in the shower room had been torture, leaving the brittle cocoon of safety they had created, back into the dangers of the world outside. Sherlock had kept his hands on John for as long as he could, and John’s own hands seemed equally reluctant to pull away.

“You should go out first,” John whispered softly. “You came in here first, so…”

“I know,” Sherlock said. “But…”

“I know. I know.”

They took one deep breath together, then parted. Sherlock stepped away and picked up a towel. He turned back, just once, to take in one more long look at John, at the sight of the water still pouring over his strong, scarred, compact body. John stared back at him, his eyes soft and sad. Sherlock walked away to prevent himself from stepping back into the shower with him, making love to him again. He could feel John’s gaze on his back as he left.

Dinner was waiting on the table when they returned to the flat. They ate in silence. Sherlock could feel each of the cameras in the flat, their flat glass eyes burning into his skin. He was so tired of this situation, tired of being watched, tired of being careful. He tried to eat his meal but it was like dust, and he ended up just pushing the food around on his plate. When John stood and stomped off to his room, Sherlock noted that his plate was still fairly full as well.

John returned with a book and sat on a chair just behind the sofa. He looked up at Sherlock and said, “Oh, will it bother Your Majesty if I read in your presence? Will the star of the ballet world deign to allow me to sit here?”

Sherlock knew a cue when he heard it. “Like I could stop you, you miserable sod.” He threw himself on the sofa.

“Not like I’ve got much choice in the matter, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Yes, but must you be so irritating?”

“Just shut it.”

They were quiet for a moment, then Sherlock huffed. “Ugh, this is awful, I can still hear you breathing.” He flounced to the stereo and put on the first piece of music he could find, one of John’s mixes. “That’s better.”

“If you must strop, strop quietly.”

“Fine.” Sherlock laid down facing the back of the sofa.

A moment of stillness passed, then John said quietly, “This is getting harder to do. The fighting thing.”

“Yes,” Sherlock murmured. “But we have to.”

Another moment passed, and John said, “You all right?”

“Yes. But – I just – I want-”

“Me too.”

Sherlock knew that John was thinking about the shower, just as he was – re-living the sensation of their hands on each other, the way they fit in each other’s arms.

“God,” John sighed. “I want to take you to bed.”

A warm flush swarmed through Sherlock’s body, and he smiled into the upholstery of the sofa. “I want to explore every inch of you.”

“And I you. Slowly. For days.”

“I want to kiss your mouth. You taste so good.”

“I want to lick that gorgeous long neck of yours. Mark you, give you great big lovebites that everyone could see.”

Sherlock took a deep shuddering breath, and dared. “I want your cock in my mouth.”

“Oh God. God, Sherlock, stop. We have to stop.”

He could hear John breathing heavily on the other side of the sofa. His own cock was erect and bent painfully in his pants. He wanted to adjust himself, relieve some of the pressure, but he remembered the cameras.

“I know,” he said. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m not. Just – give me a moment, okay?”

He waited. He listened to John’s breathing slow from gulps of heated air to calm, then to something somehow different.

“Sherlock… I need to say this.”

Sherlock felt a low curl of dread. “Yes, John.”

A pause, then John sighed. “I’m trying to find a way to say this that doesn’t sound like ‘my wife doesn’t understand me’.”

“But she doesn’t,” Sherlock said.

A low gust of humourless laughter from John. “Sherlock, I don’t regret what you and I did. Not one bit. But I need to tell you this.”

“Okay.”

“After James was shot, after I got winged, I told you I had to go to ground for a while. For about six months I didn’t speak to anyone. Not one person. That does strange things to your head, after a while. And I was cut off from all my contacts, they all thought I was dead. I was too deep undercover to wave my hand and say, ‘Hey everyone, I’m here, I’m alive.’ If I tried to leave, there would be at least three countries that would be more than happy to arrest me. I was completely, totally alone.

“When I met Maja, I thought, maybe I can just start over. Wife, maybe kids, a life I never thought I’d have. I moved us out to the farm, outside of Prokuplje, well away from Belgrade, thinking that my past could never catch up with us there.

“But within a month I realized that I’d made a mistake. We weren’t compatible at all. I was bored, I think she was bored with me. Apparently the life of a country doctor isn’t for me. But it wasn’t just about me anymore. I had a wife to keep safe. So.”

Sherlock heard a soft rustle and sigh, as though John had shrugged. He wanted to reach through the layers of cloth and wood and springs of the sofa and touch John.

“Pavlović was on holiday in Prokuplje when he had a medical emergency. I was there doing some shopping with Maja. At the time, he was just a man in distress and I was a doctor who knew what to do. Afterwards I found out what a powerful man he was. I thought I’d blown it, but after a while it seemed that he genuinely didn’t know who I was, he was just grateful. That was two years ago. Then I get this call, asking me to care for a patient. Less than an hour later, an ambulance drove up and dumped you in my spare bedroom.

“From the way they were treating you, from the way Pavlović talked about you, I got that you were a political hot potato for them. They wanted to keep you from leaving, whether by dying or any other means. But you weren’t in jail either.

“Then we came here, and you found the cameras in the flat. I hadn’t seen them. Hadn’t even thought to look for them. I realized then that I’d become complacent, allowed myself to get rusty and not use my senses. I wanted to be John Watson, MI6 again.

“That part of me, the part that I thought I’d buried long ago, the part of me that loved holding a gun, and hiding, and subterfuge, the sheer _adrenaline_ of living moment to moment, came back to me.  I’m awake now, for the first time in years.”

Sherlock shifted a little closer to the back of the sofa, just to get marginally closer to John. “You’re a fascinating man, John,” he said. “I’m glad it was your spare bedroom they dumped me in.”

“I’m glad too. But Sherlock,” John’s voice hitched with a laughing gasp, “I’m still a married man.”

A tight fist gripped Sherlock’s heart. “I know,” he rasped. _That’s it_ , he thought. _That’s all I get of him_.

“Listen to me, Sherlock,” John said, and his voice was steady again. “It’s Wednesday. Your sham performance is on Friday, right? We’ll get out Thursday, Thursday night. The rope should be ready by then.”

Sherlock nearly didn’t hear him through the buzzing in his head. Then he went over what John had just said, and one word stood out in neon.

“We?”

John nodded once, sharp and decisive. “Thursday.”

The breath fell out of Sherlock in a whoosh. “Okay.”

“And Sherlock,” John said. “Your brother, he has influence in the government?”

Sherlock huffed a laugh into the sofa. “My brother is _disgustingly_ influential. He is also a prat.”

“Do you think he could get Maja out?”

Sherlock frowned. “Yes, of course he could.”

“I mean,” John said, his voice low and a little embarrassed, “I need to make sure she’s all right. She’s the innocent in this, right? Get her out, set her up in Kosovo, wherever she’d like to be.”

Comprehension flared in Sherlock’s mind. “And then you’ll come back to London?”

“Yes. Time for me to come home.”

 


	16. Titania

The next morning, Sherlock found a folded note in his bathroom sink. Away from the cameras, he read,

_I know we still have to pretend we’re fighting, but I don’t want to insult you anymore, even for the sake of the sham. So whatever I say, you know I mean precisely the opposite, all right?_

_Work up a sweat today. Enough so you need a shower._

Sherlock smiled as he ripped up the note into tiny pieces and flushed them down the toilet. _Challenge accepted, Watson,_ he thought. A flush washed up through his chest, up into his head and down through every muscle in his body; a warmth that did not dissipate in the shower and that he knew had nothing to do with the temperature in the room. This was something new, something different.

When he came out into the sitting room of the flat, John was there, dressed, and wearing a scowl.

“About time, you lazy arse,” he said.

Sherlock kept his face from smiling, kept it stern. “You think I’d rush to see you, then?”

“Like I want to see your ugly mug first thing in the morning.”

_Precisely the opposite_ , Sherlock thought. The flush ran through his body again. But before he could respond, their driver opened the door of the flat.

“Oh goody. Another fun filled day in happy land,” John said, moving toward the door.

“No, sir,” the driver said. “Just Mr. Holmes this morning.”

They both froze. This was a change in routine, and a change in routine was not good.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock said.

“You have an appointment this morning,” the driver said. “Let’s go.”

John blinked, only once, then lay down on the sofa. “Fine. Off you go. Don’t hurry back.”

_Precisely the opposite_ , Sherlock thought again. He turned away from John, away from the sound of the newspaper that John was rattling already. “All right,” he said to the driver.

**

Sherlock only had a few minutes to worry about this unprecedented change in the routine of flat to studio, studio to flat. When the car pulled up to the back entrance of the National Theatre, he tried to disguise his sigh of relief. Of course; if he was supposed to perform in two days, he would have to visit the theatre again.

So he was unsurprised when he was led to a door labelled _Kancelarija Umetničkog Režisera_ – Office of the Artistic Director. Janina was sitting behind her desk, going through costume sketches.

“Sit down,” she said to Sherlock, without looking up. “Leave us,” she said to the driver with equal dismissiveness. The driver stepped out and closed the door, but Sherlock could still see his silhouette through the frosted glass.

Janina stopped her work and fixed him with an icy glare. Sherlock stared back at her, unwilling to play whatever game she wanted to play today.

“Do you think me to be a fool?” she said.

He tilted his head. He had frankly not expected this approach.

“Clearly you do, Sherlock Holmes. You played me for a fool years ago, and you’re playing me for one now.”

“Do explain, Janina,” Sherlock drawled, working to hide his confusion. “Don’t waste time. I have a performance to prepare for, as you recall.”

“Precisely,” Janina snapped. “You have a performance upon which your future depends. In two days. I’m very pleased that you remember this.”

“Of course I do.”

“Then would you mind explaining this?”

She picked up a remote from her desk, turned to a television screen to the side of her desk, and turned it on. The screen lit up to reveal grainy video that Sherlock quickly recognized as the security camera footage from the studio. He saw John and himself arguing in the middle of the floor, then John walk away. He watched himself dance, recognizing his improvisation from the day before.

“What is this crap, Sherlock?” Janina said. “Contemporary dance? Not even lyrical dance, _contemporary_ . You can’t possibly think that this is what you’ll present on Friday? To the most important people in Serbia, you will dance like _that_?”

“It was an exercise, no more,” Sherlock said. “Of course I-”

“And the music!” Janina said. She jabbed at the remote several times, and Sherlock could hear the song coming through the television, tinny and thin but loud. “Modern music! This isn’t YouTube, Sherlock! Trying to be Polunin after all, are you?”

Sherlock bristled. “That’s an insult to both Sergei and me, and I won’t tolerate it, Janina.”

“I’ll say what I wish, Holmes!”

Abruptly Janina lowered her voice and spoke softly. “I don’t think they’ve bugged my office but keep it up for the guard out there.”

Sherlock stared at her.

“I knew you were _seronjo_ – an arsehole – the day we met but you just keep proving it!” she shouted.

“I – And I knew you were a preening, opportunistic bitch!” Sherlock said, trying to recover from his surprise.

“Listen carefully, Sherlock,” Janina whispered, leaning in close. “I was able to get word to a friend at the British Embassy. They know you’re alive and in Belgrade. They’re on alert for you. All you have to do is get close to the gates and they will open them for you.”

Sherlock couldn’t help his astounded expression. “I – I don’t understand.”

“The Embassy isn’t far from here. They have cameras on the gates and on the street just outside. You just will need to get close for them to recognize you, and you’ll be safe.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “Why? I mean – I thought you hated me.”

Janina simply turned her head to look at the video of his dance, watching it for a brief moment. “You were always technically brilliant,” she said softly. “There was no step you couldn’t do, no jump you couldn’t accomplish. But this.” She waved at the television screen. “This. This is your soul, raw and laid bare in dance. I’ve never seen you dance like this. I’ve never seen anyone dance like this.”

He stared at her, unable to speak

“You know what they want to do?” she said. She was still looking at the television, watching Sherlock dance. “After your performance? They won’t keep you in Serbia. They’ll ship you somewhere else, likely someplace in Russia. Oh yes, there’s still an Iron Curtain of sorts. Performances for the political elite, idiots who wouldn’t know a _plié_ from a _fouetté_. Until you inevitably destroy your knees or your hips, then I suppose the salt mines.” She turned to look at him, her eyes wide and sad. “I can’t let that happen to you.”

Sherlock was acutely aware of how much she was risking, in this moment, going to the British Embassy, especially since his last encounter with her had gotten her into so much trouble. “Thank you,” he whispered. “And – I’m sorry. Sorry for everything.”

She looked back to the television. “I really thought you wanted me,” she said, her eyes turned carefully away.

Shame welled up in his stomach for the thoughtless person he was five years ago, even a month ago. “I’m sorry. I’m – I’m not-”

She nodded minutely. “I know. I know now. I made an assumption about you.”

“But I didn’t correct it, and I’m sorry. I used you as cover.”

She shrugged. “You took me to the art gallery and bought me lunch.” She laughed softly. “It was a nice day, wasn’t it?”

“It was.”

“Can you get to the Embassy?”

“I have a plan, I-”

She held up her hand. “No, thank you. The less I know. Good luck. Now.” She cleared her throat and shook her head slightly. “Don’t think that you can bring this kind of crap to the National Theatre of Belgrade and be respected for one minute,” she shouted.

He swallowed and stood. “Fine! Fine. I’ll do the Goldberg Variations. Madame Sartor did the choreography for me for the Paris Opera House two years ago. All right?”

“I suppose.”

“Get the Glenn Gould recordings for me to perform to. Not the 1955 recording, the 1981 one, if your idiots here can manage that.”

“We are not the idiots here,” she said, and smiled up at him. He nodded once more and left the room.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I am a bit of a nerd about it, there really is a difference between the 1955 and 1981 version of Glenn Gould's Goldberg Variations - on the 1981 version you can hear Gould humming. It's endearing.


	17. La Bayadère

Sherlock wanted to run. He wanted to shout. He wanted to _grand jeté_ down the streets of Belgrade. He wanted to go into the studio and pull John into his arms, twirl him around, kiss him.

The nightmare was so close to ending.

It was hard, so hard, to suppress those urges, to keep playing the aloof artist. But even through his elation he recognized that a slip at this stage could ruin the whole thing. So he turned and looked out the window of the black car taking him from the National Theatre, his face calm and neutral.

He was able to maintain his straight face as they arrived at the studio and as he was escorted up the stairs. His heart did a double beat when he saw John there, standing at the window, leaning on his cane. John turned when he came in, and Sherlock could see that he, too, was having difficulty keeping the relief from his face.

“Where the hell have you been gadding about?” John said.

Sherlock threw his bag into the corner and stripped off his jacket. “The powers that be at the National Theatre wanted to have a word about the performance. Apparently contemporary is not in their vocabulary, and I was warned against breaking their tiny brains against anything except classical musical and classical dance.”

He saw John let go a breath, as if he had been holding it. “Well of course, you git,” John said. “You’re a ballet dancer. Dance ballet.”

John’s words, and his palpable relief, made something warm curl deep inside himself. Sherlock needed to let the warmth out; he needed to dance, and he needed to dance with John. “You’re as narrow minded as the rest of them. I need to warm up. Put your shoes on.”

John cocked his head, clearly genuinely confused. “My shoes?”

“I. Need. To. Warm. Up. Put your shoes on and help me.”

John frowned and shook his head, but headed to his bag. “Such a waste of time, you are,” he said.

“As are you, which is why I’m asking you to be useful for once. Put that Monster song on the stereo. The one you were tormenting my ears with yesterday.”

John pursed his mouth in a way that the cameras would read as irritation, but Sherlock knew was just for show. He wanted to kiss that pouting lip, to hold it carefully between his teeth. He hid his rising affection with a bark of, “Hurry up!”

John started the song and moved to the centre of the dance floor, facing Sherlock. “And what is it Your Majesty requires of me?”

“Move, slowly.”

“What?”

“Move, and I’ll mirror you.”

“I don’t know ballet.”

“Do your own warm up.”

John rolled his eyes, but Sherlock saw that he was hiding a smile. He shrugged, put his hands on his hips, rocked back on his heels and tapped his toes against the floor, matching the beat of the song. Sherlock did the same, his soft ballet shoes providing an inferior but still audible tap.

_Taking over this town, they should worry,_

_But these problems aside I think I taught you well._

“Five, six, seven, eight,” John said. “Now switch to heels.” He raised himself up on his toes and brought his heels down with sharp clicks. Sherlock followed suit.

“In ballet, we call this a _relevé_ ,” Sherlock said. “Only we do it slower.”

“Show me.”

At the next phrase in the music, Sherlock moved his feet into first position, and rose up on his toes over eight beats. John did the same, following as they returned their heels to the ground.

“Different muscles when you do it slow like that,” John said.

“Yup. Your turn.”

_And they won't wait, and they won't wait, and they won't wait._

_We're here to stay, we're here to stay, we're here to stay._

“Watch. Heel toe heel toe heel toe heel toe.” John’s feet moved in tandem to the side, then returned. Sherlock did the same, feeling his muscles spark and come to life.

“ _Tendu_ ,” Sherlock said, extended one foot in a point in front of him, then raising it to hip height.

“We do that too,” John said, “only we add a tap, of course.”  He added a staccato with the toe of his shoe, each tap clear and precise.

“Show-off.”

“You should talk.”

“I do talk. Run.”

Sherlock broke into a run, circling the space, John only a half step behind him. Sherlock lengthened his strides, running not for speed but to wake his body and to feel the air rush in his face. He heard John adding taps to his run, and not to be undone, Sherlock added a few pirouettes and ended with a turning jump.

“That’s called a _coupé jeté en tournant_.”

“Another lap, then do that again,” John said. “Wasn’t ready.”

Sherlock grinned as they circled the room again, and watched in the mirror as he repeated his jump. John executed a similar jump, but slightly different, less rigid in its structure from ballet technique, but still soaring and joyous.

     _Howling ghosts they reappear_

_In mountains that are stacked with fear_

_But you're a king and I'm a lion-heart_

Sherlock was no longer sure who was leading and who was following, but they were moving in sync. They weren’t precisely the same, but each moving in their own way, their own style. John’s movements were tight and loose limbed at the same time, and Sherlock’s held the long lines that had been trained into his body since childhood. Sherlock tried to adapt a more relaxed and natural flow from John, and he could see John altering his movements to increase his stride, lengthen his limbs in imitation of Sherlock. They were dancing, together, each borrowing from the other.

     _And as the world comes to an end_

_I'll be here to hold your hand_

_'Cause you're my king and I'm your lion-heart_

The song ended and they both bent over, catching their breath in heaving gulps. Sherlock glanced at John and had a wave of images wash over him: John back in England with him, John working with him at the studio at the Royal Opera, John making a cup of tea in his kitchen on Baker Street. A life together, a life of work and leisure, of dance and domesticity blended seamlessly.

_Don’t get too far ahead,_ he scolded himself _. We’re not there yet. There’s a lot we need to get through first._

Then John looked up, and Sherlock saw everything he had seen reflected in John’s deep blue eyes.

They gazed at each other for a long moment, communicating volumes in a nanosecond.

“Got your breath?” John said.

“Yes.”

“Better get to work.”

**

Sherlock danced for hours, focusing exclusively on the Goldberg Variation piece he had spoken of with Janina. He wondered if she was watching him live, or if they gave her a recording of his rehearsals afterwards. Part of the façade to maintain was that he genuinely planned to dance on Friday, when in fact he hoped that by then he would be on a plane back to England by then – with John beside him.

John watched him dance, occasionally shouting at him about what a talentless hack he was; Sherlock would yell back about how useless John was – also part of the façade. Opposites.

Near the end of the day, John announced that he was sick of Bach, sick of ballet, and sick of Sherlock, and stormed off to the shower room. Sherlock’s cock hardened at the sound of the rushing water coming from the far end of the studio, but forced himself to concentrate on finishing the musical phrase. Then he casually walked to the shower room.

The sight of John nude and under the shower nearly made Sherlock stop in his tracks, but it was the look on John’s face that staggered him: worry, relief, joy, protectiveness, love.

Instead, he walked a careful, casual pace until he was sure he was out of range of the guard, of the cameras. Then he stripped as quickly as he could and rushed into John’s grasping arms.

“You alright? You okay?” John whispered in his ear between frantic kisses to Sherlock’s face and neck. “When they took you, I thought that was it, the jig was up, and-”

“It’s all right, John, I’m fine,” Sherlock gasped as John scraped his teeth against his throat. “I’ll tell you – lots to – oh – but first, please, please-”

“Tell me,” John murmured against his ear, his warm breath making Sherlock shiver.

“I will,” Sherlock said, pushing John away slightly, “but first… let me…” and he slid slowly to his knees.

Sherlock barely heard John’s whispered stream of expletives as he nuzzled his thighs, his hips, his belly. He admired that John was able to maintain his awareness of their situation, with the guard nearby. _Someday, someday very soon,_ he thought, _I want to hear him cry out loud._ The thought made his own cock throb, and he licked up John’s length, from balls to tip. John’s breath huffed out above Sherlock, and Sherlock smiled as he slid John’s cock into his mouth.

John’s penis was rock hard, the tip scraping along the roof of his mouth, the width of it filling him. Sherlock’s hands moved up John’s shivering legs to grasp his hips, his thumbs stroking the points of his hip bones. He moaned softly; it was so good, so right, to hold John in his mouth, in his arms. He wanted so much to take his time, to torture John with sensation until he was begging for release. That luxury would have to wait for another time. He slid his hands to John’s arse and squeezed while pushing his cock further into his mouth.

Water from the shower poured down their bodies, washing Sherlock’s hair into his face, and he pushed it back. Tiny droplets found their way through Sherlock’s lips and into his mouth, mixing with the salty precum from John on his tongue. Sherlock opened his throat and let the taste slide to the back of his soft palate.

He could hear John whispering above him, just below the volume of the shower, just below his ability to hear exactly what he was saying. He glanced up. John was biting the heel of his hand, and a dark flush was creeping up his chest and neck. His eyes were locked on Sherlock. Sherlock smiled as best he could around John’s cock, and began to direct John’s hips to thrust into his mouth. John whisper-moaned, tangled his free hand into Sherlock’s hair, and started to drive his cock into Sherlock’s mouth with short, sharp movements.

It was perfect. Sherlock’s own cock was bobbing against his belly, and he reached down to stroke it, relieve the pressure. His whole body was awake with pleasure, sparking electric shocks up and down the surface of his skin.

“Close,” John choked out. “Close, close, I-”

Sherlock badly wanted the taste of John’s come in his mouth, and he wriggled his tongue against the underside of John’s cock. John gasped, and grunted, and Sherlock felt the first spatters of his release rushing into his mouth. He worked his own cock harder, feeling his balls draw up in anticipation of his own orgasm. As the climax struck, his mouth opened in reflex, and he came at John’s feet with John’s hand in his hair and his cock softening against his lips.

He was still gasping for breath and shuddering as John pulled him to his feet and kissed him deeply. He calmed in John’s arms, their heads tilted together.

“Someday,” John whispered brokenly into his ear, “I’m going to make love to you lying down. In a bed and all.”

“An excellent plan.”

“Without the risk of a stinking bodyguard around the corner.”

“Or being heard.”

“Or getting all pruney.”

They laughed softly into each other’s mouths, then kissed, and for just a brief moment there was no guard, no danger, no threat of imprisonment, just themselves.

After a long moment, John murmured, “Back to reality, love. I’ll go out first.”

“Wait, I have to tell you. Janina, the woman who was here before, the Director of the National Theatre. She’s had a change of heart. She spoke to the embassy; they know I’m alive, and they know I’m here. We just need to get to the embassy.”

John drew back slightly to look at him, his brow furrowing. “Can you trust her? She and Pavlović could have-”

“No, I – I trust her. I’m sure.”

John grinned slowly. “Then – to the embassy. Tomorrow.”

One last hard kiss, and John stepped out of the shower area, grabbing a towel and drying himself off quickly. Sherlock took a bar of soap from the ledge and gave himself a real washdown. He turned the temperature of the water down slightly, still feeling flushed and overheated from dancing and from sex. John watched him, now dressed, and smiled sadly at him as he left the shower area as he shouted, “Hurry up, you fussy ponce!”

Sherlock followed, fully dressed and with an aloof expression a few minutes later. “I’ll take my time when I wish to,” he drawled.

The guard rolled his eyes and gestured to the door.

The daily rides back and forth to the studio were getting harder and harder. All Sherlock wanted was to lay his head in John’s lap, or have John curled up under his arm, or at the very least to hold hands while the city rushed past. To ignore him as though they hated each other was wearing thin.

_Not much longer_ , Sherlock thought, and distracted himself by reviewing their escape plan in his head. He wondered if John was doing the same, using his training to anticipate any possible flaw in the plan.  _Tomorrow, tomorrow_ , he thought.

As they rode up the elevator, John said, “Are you going to let me have some peace this evening, or are you going to play your goddamn music all night again?”

_He must have something he needs to discuss_ , Sherlock thought. _Go over the plan again, perhaps._ “I’ll play what I want, when I want,” he snapped.

“I hope you-” John started as they entered the flat.

“John.”

They stopped short at the sight of Maja in the middle of the sitting room, her eyes filling with tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys dance to “King and Lionheart” by Of Monsters and Men.
> 
> I’m not as familiar with tap as I am with ballet, so I turned to YouTube for help. John’s warm-up is based on this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MjioNfZSVVY&t=187s (watch for the little monkey in the background!)
> 
> Here’s what a coupé jeté en tournant looks like: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SH15FIftCWQ 
> 
> Here’s the Baryshnikov/Hines duet from White Nights: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ImzkWZkaIIM (Is that not the sexiest thing ever? The eye contact!)


	18. The Lady and the Fool

Sherlock lay on the sofa. He wanted a cigarette. He wanted to roar at the ceiling. He wanted to run. He wanted to turn up the stereo until the paintings rattled on the walls.

He did not want to dance.

Upon sight of Maja, John had pulled her into a hug and swept her into their bedroom without a word to Sherlock. At first he could hear her muffled sobbing through the door, but all had been silent for some time. His brain was running, frantic, trying to make sense of the situation and imagine what was going to happen now. He cursed himself for overconfidence.

A tiny click made Sherlock sit up straight, to see John coming out of the bedroom, wearing a housecoat.

“Can you not keep it down for just a few hours?” John said, stabbing a finger at the stereo. “She’s asleep.”

Sherlock glared, and turned up the music – but not by much.

John came and sat near Sherlock, but Sherlock noted that he carefully sat with his back to the camera. Sherlock tilted his head down, and found himself looking at John’s bare feet. He could see red spots and blisters forming at the heel and the ball of his foot. He realized that John had been dancing more than he had in years, and wondered what kind of callouses his feet had had back when he danced every day. His feet were vulnerable, and damaged, and hurt.

“Is she all right?” Sherlock said quietly.

John cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said. “Shaken up, but they didn’t mistreat her or anything. She didn’t – she was being kept in another flat in the building, not a cell, so that’s…”

John paused for a long moment. Sherlock watched him twist his fingers, and waited.

“She’s pregnant,” John said.

Sherlock’s brain went suddenly and ghostly quiet. All he could find the breath to say was, “Oh.”

“She – she says that she suspected before we left Prokuplje, but she wasn’t sure, didn’t say anything to me. She convinced that female guard – the one that looks like a tank – to buy her a pregnancy test, and it was positive. So they brought her back.”

Sherlock nodded, without control of his head.

“We tried, back when we first got married, but… we thought we’d missed our chance. Too old, you know.”

Sherlock hummed to let him know he was listening. He didn’t want to hear, but he was listening.

“Sherlock, I can’t… I’m sorry, I can’t-”

“It’s all right, John,” Sherlock said dully.

“My dad left when I was twelve, and I always promised that if I ever… that I wouldn’t be a man that does that to their child.”

“You’re a good man, John,” Sherlock said without thinking. The second it was out of his mouth, though, he knew he meant it, as much as it ripped him open inside.

John laughed, without humour. “Really?” he said, his voice hard. “’Cause I feel like a complete piece of shit right now.”

Sherlock addressed John’s bruised and sore feet. “You’re the most loyal person I know, John. I understand, I do. I – I’ll figure a way out once I’m at the theatre, I suppose, and-”

“Oh. No. No, Sherlock. I’m sorry, there’s so much…” John’s voice went harder, more determined. “We’re still getting out. From here.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up. “What?”

“We’ll go ahead with the plan. Just – I want to get Maja out too. More than ever, now. I don’t want Pavlović to have anything over me, over the baby. He has our passports, and I don’t see him giving them back in a hurry. He’s a manipulative bastard, and he’ll just keep using us and using us. I don’t see a baby changing his mind about that – he’ll just see it as another way he’s got us under his thumb.”

Sherlock stared. “You want to… what?”

“All three of us to get out. Tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes. Maja said they told her they would be taking you to the theatre tomorrow to rehearse onstage, and we’d be going home.”

_Going home_. John meant Prokuplje, but _going home_ meant something different to Sherlock – different from before. Those two words produced a jumble of mixed feelings in Sherlock’s gut – longing to go back to London, sick that he would not be going with John. He wondered if John would bring Maja to England, or whether they would stay in eastern Europe. He wondered which would be worse.

_Focus on the practical,_ he thought _. The important thing is to get out. All three of us. Then deal with your damn emotions back in London._

“We… we just need to get near the embassy. They’ll be watching for me.”

John nodded, and Sherlock saw the same shift to the practical in his eyes. “Good. They have good cameras scanning the area; we’d only need to get within ten feet of the gates for visual recognition.  They’ll likely open them as soon as they see you. Better than standing there and knocking politely and explaining ourselves to the guard.”

“True. So – tonight? Are we ready?”

“Give me two more hours. Midnight.”

“What did Maja say?”

John’s jaw tightened. “I haven’t told her yet. I wanted to talk to you first. I’ll wake her up, take her to the bathroom and tell her.”

“All right. But John, our plan – how can Maja – is she strong enough to get across the rope?”

“No, and I wouldn’t want to risk it with… her condition.” He smiled at Sherlock, small, with an edge of mischief and sadness underneath. “I have a plan for her but – to make it work, you’ll have to push me.”

“What?”

“Push me. Now.”

“I don’t want to push you,” Sherlock whispered, aware of and hating the vulnerability in his voice.

“I know,” John said, quietly. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock.” He was silent for a moment, and Sherlock was aware of their sadness flowing between them. “Remember what I said? About opposites?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Keep remembering that, okay? Everything I say, I mean the opposite. Until we’re out. All right?”

Sherlock nodded again, unable to trust his voice. He saw John stand and cross in front of him.

“Say that again, you ugly, talentless hack!” John shouted.

Sherlock swallowed hard and stood, staring down into John’s deep blue eyes. “You heard me, idiot.”

“This has been the most miserable month of my life, thanks to you!”

“It’s been a fucking nightmare.”

John nodded at him minutely. Sherlock reached out, put his hand on John’s warm shoulder and pushed him.

John stumbled off balance, exaggerating his reaction. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he shouted. “You’re a fucking menace!”

He sidestepped around Sherlock to the fireplace and grabbed a poker. “You stay where you are, and don’t you come near our room. I’ll have this and I won’t hesitate to brain you.”

“Fine. Get out. I can’t stand the sight of you for another minute,” Sherlock snarled.

John stood for a moment, staring at Sherlock. Sherlock couldn’t read his expression at all.

“My whole life,” John said, his breath heaving, “my entire life, I’ve never hated anyone the way I hate you.”

Then he turned and stalked to his room, slamming the door.

 


	19. The Creatures of Prometheus

Sherlock spent the next two hours in restless impatience. What if Maja refused to go? This was her home, her birthplace. What if they were caught? What if one of them was injured in the admittedly enormous physical risk in the escape? What if they got to the embassy but the gates wouldn’t open?

And, less immediate, how was Sherlock going to live without John? How could he function in life having held John in his arms, and knowing that he could never hold him again?

Time after time, Sherlock fought to shove those thoughts away from his brain, forced himself to focus on the present issue. Focus was of the utmost importance now, if they wanted to succeed.

Every once in a while, he would turn up the volume on the stereo just a little more. Part of the plan, but also to drown out his more emotional train of thought.

Just after midnight, the door to John and Maja’s room crashed open. “For God’s sake, can you not let us rest in peace?” John shouted.

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. _Battle stations_.

“I’ll do what I want!” he shouted, striding to the bedroom, towards John.

“We’d like to sleep but we haven’t been able to get a wink because of your noise.”

“I was trying to drown out the sound of your breathing. Just stop doing that, that would be lovely, thanks.”

“You selfish, stupid, prig!”

Sherlock stepped closer, looming over John. “What did you call me?”

“A selfish.” John poked him in the chest. “Stupid.” Poke. “Prig.” Poke.

Sherlock backed John into the room, with John scuttling backwards, towards the window. “I can’t wait for the day when you’re out of my sight for good.”

“Won’t be soon enough for me.”

Maja was in the far corner, her fingers tangling in agitation, her eyes wide. “Stop it! Stop fighting! Grow up, both of you!”

“Let me handle this, Maja, just be quiet!” John turned back to Sherlock, his eyes flicking up to the camera over the door of the room. He nodded small to Sherlock.

Sherlock slid his voice recorder out of his pocket. “All right Watson. Talk. Tell me why I shouldn’t beat the hell out of you right here and now.” He laid the recorder down on the table and pressed play.

“Look, neither of us want to be here, right?” John’s voice came from the recorder.

“ _I_ certainly don’t,” Sherlock’s voice said. Sherlock nodded; it was a good quality recorder, it sounded nearly like their live voices. Near enough to fool the idiots listening in.

“All right?” John said softly to Sherlock. Sherlock nodded, and looked at Maja. She was still jammed in the corner, looking terrified. Part of him felt badly for her – none of this was her fault at all.

“ _Sve će biti u redu_ ,” he said quietly to her. She nodded jerkily and took a deep breath, seeming to calm a little.

Careful to stay out of range of the cameras, John pulled from under the bed a length of rope fashioned from towels, sheets, and a rug from beside Sherlock’s bed. It was rough and ragged, but looked strong. Then he pulled out the poker from the fireplace. He had managed to bend it into a J shape, and Sherlock shivered internally at the mental image of John bending it, against the radiator perhaps, his muscles straining against the poker. _Focus_.

John handed Sherlock the end of the rope, and he tied it around his waist. Sherlock checked the knot, then opened the window and stepped out onto the ledge. He felt John’s hand on his ankle, and he looked down at him.

“Be careful,” John said, his eyes guarded but soft.

Sherlock lifted his chin and grinned. “Not to worry,” he said. “I do this five times a week, with a matinee on Sundays.”

He turned back to the open window and took a deep breath. The window opened into a courtyard of sorts, where the guards parked their cars on the ancient cobblestones of the old city. Four stories down, two guards played a desultory game of chess in a pool of light from a street lamp. The night was dark but clear, and between the nimbus of the street light and the light of the half moon, he could see most of the details of the courtyard.

Opposite him, another wing of the building created an L-shape, and Sherlock knew that beyond his sight, on the other side of that corner, was the car entrance to the courtyard, with only a low bar stretching across the driveway. On the building opposite was a metal fire escape. Tantalizingly safe, and fifteen feet away from where Sherlock stood.

However, to Sherlock’s right, three long girders stuck out from the outside wall, six feet apart.

Behind him, he could hear the recording of John and him arguing, and Maja’s breathing, fast and with the edge of a whimper of fear. John was absolutely silent, and somehow Sherlock took his greatest courage from that.

He focused on the first girder, six feet away, perhaps five inches wide. His landing had to be precise. For a moment, he remembered his ballet mistress at the Royal, Ms Bauman, marking a spot on the floor with an X of green tape, and him performing _jeté_ after _jeté_ , until he could land on the exact spot every time. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

An explosion of muscle and sinew, the wind brushing his face, and then the slap of the solid steel of the girder under his foot.

He steadied himself with a hand on the rough brick, then risked a glance back at the window. Maja’s face was lax with astonishment, but it was John’s bright smile that Sherlock saw. Then he turned back to the other girders.

The second landing went perfectly, but he wobbled a little as he landed on the third. He cursed his overconfidence, and took another deep breath to focus himself again. One more jump – the most important one.

He looked down at the guards, now directly beneath him. Not only did he have to land, he had to land silently. He glanced down at his feet, grateful that he had thought to change to his ballet shoes: they gave him greater traction and were soft soled, unlike his normal dress shoes. He smiled to himself, realizing that this whole mess had begun with another flight in ballet shoes, with his luggage abandoned behind him.

He jumped.

He landed, but the fire escape vibrated like an out of tune bell. Sherlock crouched low, turning the darkness of his back to the guards.

“ _Šta je to bilo?_ " he heard below.

On instinct, he meowed, low and plaintive. The guards muttered to themselves, then quieted as they returned to their game.

He glanced up to the window. Maja and John were equally pale, but John’s face was breaking into a grin even as he tied his end of the rope to the centre of the double window frame. Sherlock smirked back at him, then looped the rope through the corner bar of the fire escape’s platform. He made sure the knot was tight, then pulled at the rope with all his might to test it. John mirrored his action, then nodded with satisfaction.

John then took the bent poker and hooked it over the rope. To the bottom side of the hook he hung another loop of rope, about three feet in diameter. Maja stepped onto the window sill, and John helped her to sit in the loop, making sure it was tucked securely under her. Then with a brief, unreadable glance at Sherlock, he pushed Maja gently away from him.

Sherlock could see that her hands were shaking as she raised them to the rope to pull herself along. Her progress was not smooth, with the lumpiness of the homemade rope, but Sherlock had to admire her courage as she made her way across the gap.

There was a heart-stopping moment when the hook jammed on a knot in the rope, but Sherlock gently shook the rope and Maja pulled, and then she was there. He helped her to step onto the platform, then unhooked the poker and the loop, laying it silently on the floor of the fire escape by his feet. Then he looked up, held out his hand to John, and nodded.

John stepped up to the windowsill and closed the curtains behind him. Sherlock could very dimly hear the sound of the recording of their argument behind them. John tugged on the rope to test its strength again, then gripped hard and swung his feet up to cross over top. Slowly, carefully, he began to make his way across, hand over hand and foot over foot.

Maja gasped softly, and Sherlock leaned to whisper softly in her ear, “Don’t worry, he’s part monkey.” Her answering laugh was just a breath of air, but he could feel her trembling slow a little.

Then John froze. A half second later, Sherlock heard the unmistakable sound of a car pulling into the courtyard.

Sherlock flattened himself and Maja against the wall. From the corner of his eye he could see John try to draw his body up closer to the rope, to lessen the volume of his body in the air.

The car came to a stop nearly directly below John. The startled guards abandoned their chess game, and one of them opened the door. To Sherlock’s horror, Pavlović stepped out of the car, saying some sharp words in Serb to the guards. Then he strode purposefully to the entrance, the guards half-running behind him.

The moment the door shut behind them, Sherlock and Maja turned to John. “Hurry!” Sherlock whisper-hissed, and Maja frantically beckoned him on. John moved a few more inches towards them, then hesitated.

John began to move back towards the window.

“No,” Sherlock moaned softly, as Maja said, “What is he doing?”

John swung back into the room and swiftly untied the rope from the sill. It fell, softly hitting the side of the building beside Sherlock and Maja. Sherlock couldn’t move his eyes from the dangling rope until it stilled, then forced himself to look up at John in the window.

John’s eyes were soft, and his lips formed a tight, thin line. He stared at the two of them as if drinking them in. Then he mouthed silently, “I love you,” and turned away. The curtains fell shut behind him.

Sherlock wasn’t sure which of them he was saying it to.

“What is he doing? What is he doing?” Maja whispered frantically.

“Giving us a chance,” Sherlock said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sve će biti u redu = It's going to be all right  
> Šta je to bilo = What was that


	20. The Loves of Mars and Venus

Sherlock forced his shocked muscles and brain to move, to act, to think. He took Maja by the hand. She was still standing and staring at the window where John had disappeared, but he pulled at her hand until she moved.

In that moment, he made a promise to himself and to John. He would not allow John’s sacrifice to be made in vain. He would protect Maja and the baby inside her, he would get them to safety, he would take care of them. The situation had reversed, he realized. Now it was Maja beside him, not John, but he would get them out and use Mycroft’s influence to get John out after the fact.

“ _Ajde_ ,” he said to Maja in Serb, hoping that the sound of her own language would calm her somewhat. “We have to move now, over here, let’s go.”

He led her to the ladder leading down the side of the building and they crept down. There was a gap of about five feet at the bottom to the ground, and Sherlock jumped down, feeling the vibration of the earth under his feet. He lifted his arms and let Maja slither down the rest of the way.

“Run,” he said.

Hand in hand, they ran towards the gate. Sherlock stepped over the barrier, and Maja ducked underneath. Then they were outside the building that had been Sherlock’s prison.

They ran until they rounded the corner and were out of sight of the building, then Sherlock forced them to slow to a quick walk.

“It’s all right, slow, slow,” Sherlock muttered to Maja. Her breath was rabbit-quick, with occasional tiny whimpers. He drew her close and set the pace at casual but quick, just out of the pool of the lights from the streetlamps, like a couple out late after a night out.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “What did John do? Why does he go back?”

“Pavlović came back, probably to check on us. Possibly even to take me away to another location. It would have only been a matter of moments until he came up to the flat and found we were gone. John went back to stall him.”

“But he-”

“We’ll get him later, I promise.”

“I don’t understand any of this!” Maja wailed, but quietly. “I don’t understand why Pavlović doesn’t let us go home, doesn’t let you go home, doesn’t call the embassy for you. Why they take me away? Why did we need to do such dangerous things to get out?”

Sherlock sighed. “How much did John tell you?”

“Only that you were trouble here, and needed to get to embassy. That we need to get out of Serbia, for the baby. That Pavlović is not our friend.”

“That’s all true.” Sherlock pursed his lips. The situation was so complex now, it was hard to summarize in a way that Maja would understand. “Several years ago I did something here that made the government angry. Pavlović is taking his revenge by keeping me here, but I want to go back to England.” He frowned. “He’s gotten you two mixed up in all this too, I don’t understand why either. But John is worried that Pavlović will not allow you to live in peace, and he wants to get you and the baby out of the country.”

“But John is just doctor! Not even great doctor, just okay.”

Sherlock refrained from snappishly defending John, and was amazed that Maja was still critical of her husband, even in this situation. “There is more to John than just a doctor.”

“What do you mean?”

Sherlock stopped and held Maja by the shoulders. “He is going to be all right,” he said. He wondered which of them needed greater reassurance, but he held onto his own words as comfort. “He’s very clever, and when this is all over and he is with us again, you can ask him yourself.”

Tears stood in her eyes, and she nodded.

Suddenly, Sherlock saw car headlights reflected in her wide eyes, and crowded her into a dark alley. They crouched behind a skip, tense and wary, as the car passed. Sherlock recognized the car as the Audi belonging to one of the guards. The car passed out of sight, but Sherlock did not relax – this meant that John’s stalling efforts had come to an end, and the guards were patrolling the streets for them now. He shuddered to think of what was happening to John now.

“We have to go, now.” He pulled Maja down the alley, hoping that it opened out onto Kosovska Street.

“Where are we going, Sherlock?”

“To the British embassy.”

“I know where is it.”

Sherlock looked at her, surprised. “Do you?”

“I live in Belgrade when at nursing school. Embassy is on Resavska.”

“Yes.” Sherlock had memorized the map to the embassy, but it would be helpful to have someone who knew the city well in case of a problem. “We should take the back streets, the quiet streets – they’re looking for us now.”

Maja nodded, her eyes losing some of their desperate gleam. “I know good way. I used to – what is word? _Bicikl_?”

“Bicycle?”

“Yes. Also stay off big roads, cars drive like stupid. This way.”

She led him down the alley, then onto a smaller, darker street. Sherlock didn’t recognize it but getting away from the main roads was wise.

“But Sherlock, embassy is on big road, lots of lights. Also there is big gate. How we get in?”

“They’ve been alerted that I’m alive and in Belgrade. They’re looking for me. As soon as the cameras spot me, they’ll open the gates.”

They turned onto another small street, then down another alley. “How do they know? You get message out? How? Guards everywhere, all the time, I see this.”

“An old friend let them know. I didn’t know until today.”

“You have friends in Belgrade?”

Sherlock looked around. “I think we’re heading west now, we need to go south. This way.”

“Who is friend? Do I know?”

Sherlock squinted down the little road, and saw the glow of Vlajkovićeva street to their right, saw the National Museum. “There, that way. Don’t worry, I trust them.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

In the darkness, Sherlock heard the unmistakable click of a revolver. He whirled around to see Maja holding up a gun at his head.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ajde = Come on


	21. The Dybbuk

Sherlock’s head was filled with a clanging heartbeat he knew was his own, but it was as far away and irrelevant as the planets right now. All he could see was the glint of the gun in Maja’s hand, and her smirk behind it.

“Maja?” Sherlock said.

The gun did not shake or waver. “Who’s your contact at the embassy, Sherlock?” Maja said impatiently.

“I don’t – I don’t understand.” His brain had slowed to a crawl, and he couldn’t force his brain to calm and think the situation through.

Maja laughed, sharp and bitter. “Of course you don’t understand. I gotta say, Sherlock, that between you and John, I am so tired of being surrounded by idiots.”

Sherlock blinked at her voice, the difference in pronunciations of the vowels. “You’re – American?”

“Duh. Now come on, it will be dawn soon. Who’s your contact?”

Sherlock’s mind began to slowly come back online, spurred on by the growing realization of a new dimension of danger. “CIA?”

“Let’s just say I’m a freelancer.”

A numb horror crept through his body. “Were you and John working together, to set me up for this?”

She smiled brightly, and it made Sherlock shudder. “Of course not. John doesn’t know. He thinks I’m simpering little Maja, the nurse from Ćukovac. God, I’m so glad this job is nearly done. I’ve been bored to tears for four years now.”

“But John-”

“Is MI6, I know. As are you.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, I’m not. I just do...jobs every once and a while.”

Maja shrugged. “You did the work, I don’t care what you call yourself.”

His mind was still spinning in confusion, but Sherlock chose his words carefully; he didn’t want to confirm with Maja if she was fishing for answers. “Why do you think he’s MI6?”

“That’s why I married him.”

Sherlock blinked, and Maja sighed impatiently again.

“All right, I’ll spell it out for you. I do jobs for Pavlović every once and a while. About four years ago he calls me and says, ‘I’ve got a mess here. Found a nest of MI6 agents in Belgrade. One is down but the other’s gone to ground. I have a good feeling who it is, but I need confirmation.’ So he set me up with John. Get close, get confirmation, then I can bring him in.” She paused, looking thoughtful. “I’ll admit, he’s clever. Never let his guard down, even after I married him. I thought he’d trust me enough to tell me.”

Sherlock stared at her, aghast. “You married John – stayed with him for _four years_ – to confirm he was MI6? To get a confession out of him?”

Her eyes went small and cold. “You have no idea what you stole, do you? That was some high level plans. We couldn’t get you anymore, you were out of the country and protected by your brother’s influence, but we figured out your contact, and from there we hoped to get to the rest of the lot. All the clues led to John being the next big fish, but we needed confirmation. That’s where I came in.” She smiled, but there was no life, no joy in it. “And besides, the job wasn’t too bad. He’s a pretty good lay. I was hoping for pillow talk, but…”

Sherlock’s head snapped back as though he had been slapped. He had known she was holding a secret from John, resentment of some kind, but he had no idea that it would be on this scale. And to hear her speak so coldly of John somehow hurt more than a fist would have. _Did she know about him and John?_   Sherlock had a feeling that if she did, he would have been shot by now.

“And then you were here again,” Maja continued. “Pavlović let me know you were back, and we came up with this idea. We thought that you two would give yourselves away. I thought you knew each other, before, but you didn’t, did you? And you two started fucking _dancing_ together,” her face shifting into a disgusted grimace,  “and I needed to up the stakes.”

“You had the guards take you away,” Sherlock breathed, not believing it even as he said it, “as if you were an innocent, hoping that it would spur John to action. And you could watch us better from a distance.”

Maja’s lip twisted. “That’s right. And it did get him to move, didn’t it? Except you two assholes were able to keep it from us. I had no idea until I came back that you had this plan, already set to go. I thought I’d go along with it – improvisation is one of my talents.”

“Clearly. Were you expecting Pavlović to come back?”

“No. Pavlović probably heard the recording and thought you two were going to try to kill each other. The poker John took from the fireplace last night, you see. When you pushed him, and he took it as protection. Pavlović was likely coming to call the whole thing off. He’s probably working John over right now, you know.” She said it so casually, so matter of fact, and Sherlock shuddered inwardly. “And it’s time to end this whole debacle. So. The name of your contact here, please.”

“No. Absolutely not.” Sherlock knew that refusal was the only thing that would keep him alive now.

Maja smiled, coldly, and a rill of fear ran down Sherlock’s spine. “Well, then, whatever shall I do? Let’s see. The only people you’ve seen since you arrived are the staff at the hospital – they all checked out. Pavlović, me, John. The guards – obviously not, they’re completely loyal. The only other person you’ve seen is that ice-bitch at the National Theatre. So it’s her, yes?”

“No, I-”

“Process of elimination, Sherlock. Thanks for playing. It’s been a pleasure.”

He saw her finger tightening on the trigger, and he leapt sideways out of the way. He heard the whine of the bullet passing him, and he rolled over his shoulder back to his feet.

“Ooo, you are _fast_ ,” Maja said. “Fucking _ballet_.”

Sherlock knew he wasn’t a true spy, in the way that John was, in the way that his brother was. He was a keen observer, could lie in someone’s face while carrying a nation’s secrets in his shoe, but the intrigue and fisticuffs of spy work held no appeal. All he ever wanted to do was dance.

In a split second, he knew what he could do – what he was best at.

He didn’t take time to breathe, but ran at Maja and executed a _revoltad_ , kicking the gun from her hand. It skittered into the shadows of the street, and he thought he heard a minute snapping sound from her hand. She cried out in rage and pain as Sherlock landed and ran into the night.

He ran as fast as he could, keeping to the darker side of the street. His ballet shoes helped him to run quietly, but he could feel every rock and stone underneath. He could hear no footfalls behind him but surmised that Maja was looking for her gun first. She clearly knew the streets and alleys of Belgrade extremely well, so losing her that way was unlikely.

As he ran, his side began to hurt. Thinking it was a stitch, he focused on his breathing, but the pain instead of calming, roared into greater life. He put his hand down to his side, and it came away wet.

_That’s not a stitch,_ he thought dully _. She shot me._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s a clip of the amazing Sergei Polunin being amazing; he performs the revoltad, Sherlock’s defensive move, at 1:11: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xkw9KO_kA4g


	22. Petrushka

As soon as he was aware of the pain from the bullet, Sherlock’s pace began to falter. Disregarding pain was a large part of his life, and he tried to ignore it, but the pain instead began to zigzag through his nervous system in a way he’d never experienced before.

He needed to stop, get his bearings, take stock of the situation.

“Sherlock?”

He heard Maja’s voice somewhere behind him, wheedling and patronizing. He gritted his teeth, kept going.

“Sherlock dear, I think I hit you.”

Sherlock took a sharp left around a corner, tried to situate himself. The twists and turns through the alleys had disoriented him, which was likely Maja’s intention.

“Because I can see drops of blood on the pavement here.”

Sherlock cursed to himself. If he was bleeding that badly, it would be painfully simple for her to track him. He took his jacket off and balled it against his side, grateful for the dark material of his shirt..

“Come on, Sherlock. Let’s get you to a hospital, shall we? Get you taken care of.”

Her voice was calm and soothing, and Sherlock was suddenly so tired. Oh, she was good. No wonder she had been able to immerse herself in the role of a wife and nurse for four years. 

“I don’t think you’re going to dance tomorrow, Sherlock,” Maja sang.

Exhaustion was suddenly overwhelmed by fury. How _dare_ she speak like that to him. How _dare_ Pavlović hold him against his will. He was Sherlock Holmes, and he would get out of this. He had to live – and save John.

He looked up. Just down the streets the line of buildings was broken by trees and grass. In a moment, the map of central Belgrade clicked into his mind, and he knew that this was Pionirski Park, and that the park was only a few blocks north and west of the embassy. He also knew the park was full of bushes and hedges and trees – places to hide.

He dashed across the street, snarling at the pool of light he was forced to cross. Footsteps clattered down the road; Maja had seen him. Gritting his teeth, Sherlock took the jacket away from his side as he ran, wincing as the cool air hit his wound. He ran towards the fountain at the centre of the park, knowing he was leaving droplets of blood behind him. He hoped he had enough of a lead ahead of her.

He stumbled up to the fountain, heaving breath. He stared for a moment at the statue in the fountain, a nude woman holding a jug, which poured water into the pool. He wondered if he would ever feel that kind of serenity again.

Looking down, he saw that he had left a smear of blood on the ground. He leaned over and splashed some of the water around, hoping it would look as though he had gone into the fountain. Then he carefully covered the wound with his jacket again, and went to the south side of the fountain. Another splash of water, and he wiped his bloody hand against the edge. Holding the jacket tightly against his side, he darted west. There was a row of thick hedges lining the area, and he crept in, hiding himself until he was surrounded with greenery.

Not a minute later, Maja approached the fountain. Sherlock watched her as she observed the end of the blood trail, the splash of water. She circled the fountain, paused, then ran out of sight towards the southern end of the park.

Sherlock lay back, letting the branches of the hedge support him, and tried to catch his breath. He wondered how long she would search the south end of the park before retracing her steps. He needed to get moving, but surely he could rest for just a moment.

He was so tired. Every muscle hurt. The brambles of the hedge pricked at him. His torn flesh in his side screamed at him. He was getting cold. He wanted to go home. He was hungry and he wanted chips. He wanted John’s arms around him.

He thought about John dancing, the sweat pouring down his back. He thought of the feel of John’s head on his shoulder. He remembered the look on John’s face when he came to him in the shower – so vulnerable, so full of hope. He remembered the soft slant of John’s eyes as he whispered “I love you” at the window.

He imagined his flat in London, and John making a cup of tea. He imagined John smiling at him over the steam from the cup. The image revived him - hopefully enough to get to the embassy.

Groaning softly, Sherlock crawled out of the hedge. Maja was not in sight, and it was nearly morning. He straightened up, pulled a leaf out of his hair, and walked as quickly as he could manage towards the western boundary of the park.

Dawn was pinking the edges of the buildings as he cautiously entered the main road. There were people on the street now; early shift workers making their way to their jobs in the downtown core. More people than Sherlock had seen in weeks now.

He straightened his back, ignoring the pull of dried blood on his skin, the yank of pain from his wound. He buttoned his jacket, hiding his bloody shirt. He spat on his hands to wet them, and wiped the blood off on his trousers. He lifted his chin, and walked into the street.

How ironic it was, he thought, that he was so close the whole time to the embassy, to safety. The National Theatre was only a five minute walk away, the flat another ten minutes. He wondered where John was right now.

There were a few cars on the road now, the occasional bus. An older woman wearing a headscarf nodded and said, “ _Dobro jutro_.” Sherlock nodded back.

He was starting to shiver now in the chill of the morning, and no doubt from blood loss. His side hurt as though it was screaming at him, and he longed to lie down on a soft bed, but he forced himself to keep walking.

He turned the next corner, and there it was, the embassy, with the Union Jack already flying. He found himself grinning and he quickened his pace.

“Siegfried is out of the forest,” he murmured to himself.

Suddenly there was a sharp stab of pain in his side, an arm slid around his shoulders, and a voice whispering in his ear, “Not quite, darling.”

He gasped in pain, feeling the warm wet of fresh blood trickle down his side. “Oh, is that where I hit you?” Maja said. “Nothing too permanent, I hope. Not that it matters, really.”

Sherlock kept walking, resisting Maja’s pull on his shoulders. He fixed his eyes on the Union Jack, at the gates between him and it.

“I’ll admit, that was smart, your trick at the fountain,” she purred. “But all I had to do was circle back to the embassy, I knew I’d run into you again.”

Another old woman carrying a basket of bread passed, looking at them curiously, and Maja gave her a gritted teeth smile. The embassy seemed to get no closer, but Sherlock still walked.

“All right, that’s enough now, Sherlock,” Maja said. “Very good try, though, I must admit. Never thought you’d get this far, especially once I’d winged you. But that’s enough.”

“Or what? Will you shoot me in the street? There’s quite a few witnesses around now, haven’t you noticed?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“In the middle of the square, I suppose? When you shot my contact? That _was_ you, wasn’t it? I wonder how John would react if he knew you married him after you shot his friend.”

“I did what I had to do.”

“An excuse used throughout history that has not once elicited a sympathetic response.”

The embassy was so close, so tantalizingly close. Where were the cameras? The cameras would cover the grounds, the gate. If Sherlock could see the cameras, surely the cameras would see him. 

Maja’s gun dug a little harder into Sherlock’s side, and he grunted in pain, stumbling a bit. “I don’t care about sympathy. I’ve been on this job for far too long, and you are the only thing keeping me from finishing it.”

“Sorry for the conflicting agendas. I just want to go home.”

“No can do, Sherlock. Terribly sorry, old chap.” She imitated his accent, quite well actually; Sherlock could see how she could disappear into whatever persona she claimed.

A car screeched to a halt just in front of them, and Pavlović got out, to Sherlock’s sinking heart.

“Get in, Mr. Holmes,” Pavlović said. He moved to Sherlock’s other arm, and they pulled him towards the car.  Sherlock summoned what strength he had left, and resisted. The momentum kept them all moving down the pavement.

“Are you two willing to make a public scene?” Sherlock said. “In the streets, right in front of the embassy? I can’t think that would go down well with your superiors.”

Sherlock fixed his eyes on the gates of the embassy. Was that a camera just above the door? Did it just move? He was sweating with pain and fear now, but he was determined that he would not be stopped. He looked over at Pavlović, and was surprised to see a sheen of perspiration on his face as well. Suddenly it all clicked.

“I see,” he breathed. “You’re afraid. If I walk through those gates, your mission has failed. Both of your missions,” he said, nodding at Maja as well. “But are you willing to make things worse by taking me in publicly? Oh!” Sherlock smiled. “I think I see now – this operation has been under the table, hasn’t it? Your superiors don’t know about your little plan. You hoped to show me off at the performance, then let them take me as your prize.

“And what about John?” He looked over at Maja. “You worked for four years to get evidence, or a confession, of his clandestine history here in Belgrade. But you never got it. You thought my presence would help, but you just ended up with two troublemakers who escaped. And still no proof.”

“You admitted it to me, Sherlock,” Maja said. “Back in the alley. I’m wearing a bodycam; I’ve got the evidence now.”

Like a mirage, the door to the embassy was opening. Sherlock smiled.

“I believe if you review the footage, you’ll find I didn’t actually say that. I simply said there was more to him than just a doctor.”

“You-”

“I meant he’s a really good tap dancer.”

A flood of people came out of the embassy doors: first a guard, then a man who was clearly the ambassador, then – oh God – Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Hudson in her purple dress, tiny next to the guard but with a determined set to her jaw and her bright eyes fixed on the gate. After her came a gaggle of news reporters with microphones and cameras slung on their shoulders. The sight of the BBC logo nearly brought tears to Sherlock’s eyes; a glimpse of _home_.

“Get in the car, Holmes,” Pavlović said, and there was a faint trace of panic in his voice.

“No.”

“Right now.” Pavlović gave another jerk to Sherlock’s arm.

 Mrs. Hudson was squinting at the three of them, and the ambassador was whispering to her. They were still a good twenty feet away, and Sherlock knew they had to confirm his identity before they could open the gate. He had to get closer. Sherlock kept walking.

“I have John Watson, Mr. Holmes. Think of that. My men are not gentle. He’ll confess eventually; everyone does.”

Sherlock said nothing, refusing to allow his fear for John show on his face.

Mrs. Hudson was now at the gate, the media pressed up against her. She blinked and peered at him, then her face lit up. Her arm shot through the gate, between the bars, and she shouted, “That’s him!”

Immediately the cameras began to roll, bright lights on Sherlock, Pavlović, and Maja.

“There’s ten men behind us now,” Pavlović snarled. “I can give them the word and they’ll get you in the car, have no doubt.”

“Can’t you see the cameras, Pavlović? You want to take me down in front of the media? The all-powerful, far-reaching BBC? Some of them may even be livestreaming to the net.”

Pavlović was silent, and Sherlock knew he finally had him.

“Think, Pavlović. Right now your superiors don’t know about this operation, and they don’t know it’s failed. But depending on what you do in the next thirty seconds, you’re either a failure, or a hero. Choose wisely.”

Sherlock heard Pavlović growl minutely, deep in his throat. Then Pavlović smiled and raised his hand in greeting.

“Ambassador! How good to see you!” Pavlović called out. “After the terrible plane crash, our medical professionals have saved the great dancer, Sherlock Holmes!”

Cameras popped, reporters shouted questions, the ambassador smiled. Below it all, he heard Mrs. Hudson saying frantically to the ambassador, “Something’s wrong. Open the gate, open the gate _right now_.”

Dear Mrs. Hudson, who knew him probably better than anyone on earth, knew that the situation was not as it appeared. Perhaps she saw the pain in the line of his lips, or saw the tension in the arms that still held him.

“Play your part, Mr. Holmes,” Pavlović muttered.

Sherlock gave a smile, it was a weak one, but the best he could do. The gate opened, and Pavlović released his grip on Sherlock’s arm. After a second of hesitation, Maja did as well.

A reporter shouted, “How are you, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock straightened his back, lifted his chin, stepped away from Pavlović and Maja. “Very well, thank you,” he said. He smoothed down the front of his jacket. “The medical professionals here are… very good at what they do.”

He was only a step away from the open gate now, and Mrs. Hudson’s arms were reaching out to him. He looked back briefly, and saw Pavlović with his fake smile, and Maja with a stony expression. Sherlock paused for a split second, knew instantly what he had to do.

“This woman saved my life,” he said. He stepped back to Maja and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her forward. “She would like to seek asylum in the United Kingdom.”

Ignoring Pavlović’s look of shock, Sherlock strode quickly back towards the gate. He felt Mrs. Hudson’s fingers on his lapel, surprisingly strong, and he was pulled through the gates of the embassy, pulling Maja in behind him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dobro jutro = Good morning


	23. The Prodigal Son

The gates clanged shut behind them. Sherlock was carried along in the tide of the reporters and diplomats through the courtyard and into the doors of the embassy itself. He was dimly aware of questions being shouted at them; he answered without thinking, mostly “Yes” and “Glad to be home”. All the while, Mrs. Hudson was beside him, never letting go of him, a bundle of material of his jacket crammed in her fist.

He was sure to not let go of Maja’s arm. She said nothing.

After the doors of the embassy were shut, he whispered, “Please.”

Mrs. Hudson, brilliant Mrs. Hudson, immediately raised her voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Holmes would be pleased to do a formal press conference later in the day, but right now he requires some rest – he is still recuperating. Thank you. Thank you.”

Slowly, the reporters dispersed. The moment they’d all gone, Mrs. Hudson hugged him fiercely, not hearing his gasp of pain. “Oh Sherlock! I was so worried! We thought – oh, we thought you had – oh, it’s just been terrible!”

Sherlock could hear one of the diplomats murmuring into a phone. Another staffer was trying to talk to Maja, but she said nothing, just stared at Sherlock. He couldn’t read her expression at all.

Running footsteps came down the corridor. Sherlock turned his head away from Mrs. Hudson and Maja toward the sound.

“He thought it was best he wasn’t seen outside, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said. “But he’s been ever so worried, the whole time.”

Mycroft rounded the corner, his face slightly reddened from running, and his eyes wide and vulnerable in a way that Sherlock had never seen before. He stopped short as soon as he saw Sherlock. Sherlock saw the worry Mrs. Hudson had told him about in his eyes; but it was a different kind of worry than Sherlock had ever seen from him before: not worry about Sherlock’s reputation at school, or the ballet world, not worry about how Sherlock’s behaviour would impact Mycroft’s career, not worry about how he upset Mummy. It was the remnants of a terrible fear that they had nearly lost each other.

“Brother mine,” Sherlock said softly.

Mycroft pulled himself together. Sherlock knew that only he, and not the staff of the embassy, had seen that vulnerability. “You’re well, little brother?”

A thick trickle of blood slid down Sherlock’s side. He realized that Mrs. Hudson’s fierce hug had reopened his wound. With his black clothing, however, no one could see. It suddenly became important to him that Maja not see him suffering - she had already taken so much from him. 

“As well as can be expected.” He allowed Mycroft to see that he was lying, and a flash of alarm crossed Mycroft’s face.

“I see. Would you like some tea?” Mycroft said pointedly.

For a moment, Sherlock wanted to laugh at Mycroft and all his code phrases. This one dated back to when Sherlock was at school, his school before the Royal Academy, where he was regularly beaten up for being a boy who danced.

It meant, ‘ _Are you hurt?_ ’ 

Sherlock was hit with a wave of exhaustion and an unfamiliar feeling of gratitude towards his brother, for understanding.

“Yes,” Sherlock said distinctly. “Thank you.”

Mycroft frowned and turned away, and saw Maja for the first time. “Who is this?” he said sharply. 

“Maja Watson,” Sherlock said. Stars began to swim across his line of sight, and he thought that perhaps he should tell someone he was about to faint - but also needed to give Mycroft urgent information first.

He smiled to himself, as the room lurched.  “Also known as Odile. The Black Swan.”

The stars overwhelmed his vision, and Mycroft’s arms went around him as he fell.

**

“Young man, you ought to know you worried us all half to death.”

Sherlock opened his eyes. Not the hospital. Not the flat in Belgrade with John in the other room. Not his home in London. He took a moment to consider, adding Mrs. Hudson’s voice into the equation, then remembered – the embassy. In an improvised hospital room, with walls that were not white but a soft yellow, antique furnishings of buttery oak, and, jarringly, an IV pole by his bed and tubes dripping medicine into his arm.

He turned his aching head away from the IV to Mrs. Hudson’s kind face.

“Won’t let it happen again,” he croaked.

She poured a cup of water from a nearby jug and helped him sit up enough to drink. As he sat back, the dressing on his side pulled at his skin and he winced.

“They cleaned it up and bandaged it,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Enough blood to give us a good scare when you fell, but no damage to your organs or major muscles.”

He turned to her in some alarm as the whole of it came back to him. “Did someone-”

“She was disarmed right away,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Your brother gave just one look, and there was a guard on her just as you fell. She’s locked away now, never fear.” She shook her head, tears rolling up in her eyes. “Oh Sherlock dear. After the crash, someone from the military hospital told us you were very ill and couldn’t be moved, and I insisted on seeing you, and they wouldn’t let me, so I called your brother, he came straight away and we’ve been here since.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “You stayed,” he said.

“Well of course I did, dear! Your brother won’t say so, but he’s been worried sick like I’ve never seen. He’s been on the phone nearly constantly since he arrived, talking to every connection he has here. And then we got word that you were in Belgrade, and well, and – oh, I haven’t slept since then. What happened, Sherlock?”

“Precisely what I’d like to know as well, Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft said from the door.

He had clearly pulled himself together since Sherlock had first arrived, his clothing immaculate as usual, not a hair out of place, his expression unruffled. The desperate man Sherlock had seen earlier was gone, but Sherlock realized that he would never forget it.

“Brother,” Mycroft said.

“Mycroft.”

Mycroft swept into the room and sat, unbuttoning his jacket. “As a first order of business, please be informed that Maja Watson, aka Mary Morstan, aka AGRA, formerly of the CIA, professional free-lance spy and assassin, wanted in at least five different countries, was immediately searched and disarmed by the security staff here, and she is now being held in a secure room in the embassy, guarded by the best on staff. I assume she is the one who shot you?”

Sherlock nodded wearily. It seemed like so long ago, and nearly irrelevant now.

Mycroft laid a recording device on the tray beside Sherlock’s bed. “I am here to take your official statement, Sherlock. Kindly give us an account of everything that happened since the plane crash to the present moment.”

Sherlock considered. “Do you want the full version, or do you want the…diplomatic version?”

“All of it,” Mycroft said grimly, and Sherlock had a flash of what the Serbian government was in for.

He spoke for over an hour, with occasional breaks for rest and sips of water. Mrs. Hudson’s hand rested on his the whole time, patting it at intervals. Sherlock was frustrated at his low energy, but was determined to get the story on record.

He finished, and lay back on the bed. “And then I fell, and I don’t remember anything else until I woke here,” Sherlock said.

“That’s the whole of it, then?” Mycroft said.

“Yes,” Sherlock said as he closed his eyes.

“Turn that off,” Mrs. Hudson said.

The brothers turned to her in surprise, but Mycroft obeyed and switched off the recorder.

“That’s not all of it, is it, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson said.

Mycroft moved towards the recorder but Mrs. Hudson shook her head. Sherlock was staring at her, incomprehension fogging his brain. 

Her voice went soft. “You fell in love with him, didn’t you? This John Watson?”

Sherlock blinked, and he realized he didn’t need to say a word – the answer was written all over his face.

“You lit up whenever you talked about him. He’s clearly a clever man, and you admire clever people, but it’s more than that. You love him.”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered.

Mrs. Hudson turned to Mycroft with a pointed look. He stood, buttoned his jacket, and picked up the recorder.

“If you will excuse me,” he said, “I have some phone calls to make. Sherlock, I can have you transported back to London as soon as Doctor Bell clears you.”

“He won’t leave,” Mrs. Hudson said sharply.

“No,” Sherlock said, and Mrs. Hudson patted his hand again. “I won’t leave Belgrade without him.”

Mycroft nodded, his expression inscrutable, and left the room.

**

Sherlock had been put on painkillers since his collapse, but after he woke he refused them. The fog from the drugs lifted, but the pain was still bad enough that he had trouble sleeping. His dreams were sticky and muddled, full of memories from his childhood and brief images of John in terrible danger or pain.

The waiting was interminable. Every morning he demanded answers from Mycroft, but he would only reply enigmatically about the wheels of diplomacy always running slowly, and Sherlock would grit his teeth. He knew in his heart that Mycroft was doing all he could, but his instinct was to shout at Mycroft until his throat was sore – as if that would retrieve John any faster.

One morning he woke, and his body felt like his own again. He put his feet on the cool of the linoleum floor and wiggled his toes. He stood and moved to the foot of the bed.  Using the footboard as a barre, he began his usual morning warmup – _pliés_ , _tendus_ , stretching muscles that were sore and stiff from underuse and leftover overloads of adrenaline.

Mrs. Hudson came in with a tea tray, and smiled at him. “That’s good to see.”

“It’s good to do. To be able to.”

She put the tray down and sat on the armchair opposite him. She watched him work for a few minutes in silence.

“Sherlock,” she said after a time, “I’ve been your manager for many years, but you’re like a son to me, you know.”

He smiled at her. He knew, and loved her for it. If you had asked him last month what she meant to him, he would have shrugged and said, ‘She’s my manager.’ Now he saw clearly how important she was to him. It took this whole incident, the crash and his imprisonment, to make him grateful for her and the other people like her in his life.

“So I’m asking this as both your manager, and as someone who knows you well: What do you want? What are you going to do next? Of course we cancelled the Japan and China tour. And you’ve got the season at the Paris Opera in the fall, but say the word and-”

“I don’t think I want to travel for a bit.”

“Understandable.”

Sherlock sat down. He was tired now, and frustrated that his energy had failed him already. “I don’t know. I’ll think about it. A lot of it depends on…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

Mrs. Hudson nodded. “Your brother is working on it, dear.”

“Are you bemoaning again?” Mycroft asked from the door. “As I’ve told you countless times, diplomacy cannot be rushed, brother dear. It is a wheel that must move slowly, or-”

“-Or it runs over all in its path, I _know_ , Mycroft,” Sherlock sighed.

Mycroft picked an invisible piece of lint from his lapel. “Sometimes, however, the wheel arrives at its destination. Might I suggest you get dressed?”

**

Sherlock paced back and forth in the front room of the embassy, pausing to glare out of the window at every pass. “How dare he tell me – order me – to stay inside?” he snarled.

“It’s something to do with the negotiations,” Mrs. Hudson said calmly. “If they know you’re up and about already, your brother loses some leverage, or some such thing.”

“They just don’t want to be reminded that their agents broke every United Nations rule there is when they dealt with me.”

“That’s true, and it’s a crying shame.”

“And it might not even be John!” Sherlock exploded in frustration.

“Well, he hasn’t got a passport, has he? There’s nothing on record for him, because of his background. Also, you know your brother, he doesn’t trust anyone except family.”

“Sometimes not even that.”

Mrs. Hudson carried on, undeterred. “And it’s unlikely that that Pavlović fellow would do you a favour and confirm that the man they have is the John Watson we’re talking about.”

Sherlock enjoyed a few moments of imagining what the future held for Pavlović. The end of his career, at best. Then he resumed his pacing.

“There’s a car coming,” Mrs. Hudson said.

Sherlock ran to the window, and sure enough, a black car with tinted windows had pulled up to the gate. He saw Mycroft step up to the gate, along with several other diplomats and some guards. A man in uniform, a Serbian general got out of the passenger side, and he and Mycroft spoke briefly, from opposite sides of the gate.

“Such a funny thing, borders and embassies,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I mean, here we are in the middle of Serbia, but within the gate, we’re actually in England.”

“Sh!” Sherlock hissed.

The general nodded sharply, then turned and nodded to the driver of the car. The driver moved to the back door of the car, opened it, and helped a man out.

The man was blindfolded, handcuffed, bruised, dirty, and unkempt, but was unquestionably John Watson.

Mycroft snapped at the general, who stepped forward and removed John’s blindfold. John blinked in the bright sun, clearly disoriented and confused. Mycroft subtly turned to Sherlock’s window and raised an eyebrow; Sherlock nodded, quick and eager.

Mycroft pressed his lips together and tilted his head to one of the guards at his side. Two things happened at once: one guard began to open the gate, and a second guard went to the main door of the embassy. He returned, with another guard, with Maja between them. She was handcuffed, and the guards looped their hands through her elbows. She looked angry and sulky, but followed them quietly.

“What’s _she_ doing out here?” Mrs. Hudson said sourly.

“It’s an exchange,” Sherlock breathed.

Sherlock only had eyes for John. John was being led to the gate, but when he caught sight of Maja, his face hardened, deep lines forming in his forehead.

It was turning into an elaborate act of diplomatic choreography. The gate was now fully open, and the guards on each side were approaching it slowly and carefully, and Sherlock knew enough diplomacy to know the guards had instructions that their prisoners were to cross at the exact same moment. When they could go no further without stepping across the border, the guards released their charges. Sherlock growled when he saw John’s guard give him a firm push, making him stumble.

But at the doorway of the gate, John paused.

He looked at Maja, who had also stopped. John’s face was still creased and angry, but he spoke a few soft words. Sherlock was too far away to hear, separated by distance and a pane of thick glass.

Maja laughed. Her face was full of scorn, and she laughed, lifted her chin, and walked back into Serbia, into the waiting car, without looking back.

John slumped, his whole body collapsing. The guards stepped forward to support him. One produced a key and unlocked John’s handcuffs, and his arms fell limply by his sides. Mycroft extended his hand to shake, and it was clearly an effort for John to return the gesture.

“Oh,” Mrs. Hudson said, and her voice was strained and wet. “I’ll just – I’ll get a cup of tea for him. He – he looks like he needs a cup of tea.”

Mycroft was now leading the small party back into the embassy. Sherlock, unable to contain himself any more, ran to the door and ripped it open.

“John!” he shouted.

It took John a moment to react to the open door, to focus on Sherlock standing there. His eyes widened in shock and he went deadly pale.

“Jesus Christ,” John whispered. “Jesus. She killed you. I thought she-”

His eyes rolled back, and John collapsed into the arms of the guards.

 


	24. The Sacrifices to Cupid

Sherlock insisted that he no longer needed the hospital room, and John was quickly moved in. He had snarled in frustration when he was shut out of the room, but Mrs. Hudson reasoned with him that the doctor needed some time to evaluate John’s condition. Instead Sherlock had paced incessantly in the hallway until they had let him in again.

John was lying on the bed, still unconscious, an IV drip in his arm. “He was badly dehydrated,” said the doctor, “and a bit malnourished, and there’s some nasty bruising. Perhaps a cracked rib, but there’s nothing I can do for that. He just needs rest now.”

Sherlock nodded, not taking his eyes off of John’s still form on the bed. He didn’t notice the doctor slip out of the room.

The sun slid painfully slowly across the room as Sherlock sat at John’s side. Sometimes John’s face and body would twitch, sometimes he would moan, or say something that Sherlock couldn’t understand. Then he would be still again.

Sometimes the doctor would come in and check John’s pulse, check the IV tube, replace one of the bags hanging above him. She was silent as she worked, and when she was done, she would nod at Sherlock and leave quietly.

Mrs. Hudson came and sat with him for a time.

“Such a handsome man,” she whispered. “At least, when the bruises fade. His face has… character. What colour are his eyes?”

“Blue,” Sherlock murmured.

She nodded, as though Sherlock had affirmed something she already knew. “Such a handsome man.”

She put a cup of tea into Sherlock’s hand, and glared at him until he drank it. Then she patted his shoulder and left.

When it grew dark, Sherlock turned on a small lamp in the corner, and draped his handkerchief over it to dim the light. He didn’t want John to wake up in the dark. He pulled his chair a little closer to the bed and curled up into it.

The room was orange and pink with the dawn when John’s eyes fluttered and blinked open. His eyes darted fretfully around the room for a brief moment before settling on Sherlock.

“Hello John,” Sherlock said softly.

John licked his lips, chapped and split. His eyes didn’t move from Sherlock’s.

“Am I dreaming?” John said, his voice raspy and sore. “Is this another dream?”

“No,” Sherlock said, as his heart squeezed in his chest. “You’re in the British embassy, in Belgrade.”

“And you’re here.”

“I’m here.”

“How…?”

John licked his lips, and Sherlock poured him a glass of water. John sipped, then drained the glass with great gulps. Sherlock poured more.

“I will tell you everything, John, and answer any questions you have. But could we do this in order? What happened after you went back into the flat?”

John drank again, but not as desperately as before. He sat back, as though the act of drinking had exhausted him. “All right.

“I went right downstairs and caught Pavlović just as he was coming in. Started ranting and raving about what an arsehole you were, that you were a psychopath, that you were driving me crazy. He was trying to calm me down and we sat down in that little kitchenette. I remembered that the guards often have a bottle of something, and asked for a drink to calm me down. I got Pavlović to have one or two as well.

“My idea was to distract him, to keep him away from the flat long enough to allow you two to get well away. I think one of the guards could see that something was wrong upstairs, he kept trying to get Pavlović’s attention, but Pavlović kept waving him off. I should be grateful to Pavlović’s ego, I suppose.

“I knew I couldn’t keep it up indefinitely. Maybe ten minutes? Then they realized what I was up to, that you two were gone. Pavlović and a couple of heavies ran out, and a couple more heavies decided to put the boot to me on behalf of their boss.”

“Oh John,” Sherlock said. He put his face in his hands at the thought of John being beaten because of him.

“Hey,” John said. He reached out and pulled Sherlock’s hands away. “It was worth it, okay? Worth it to know you and…” He stopped and swallowed hard. “At one point, they left me alone, got distracted with messages from Pavlović. And I was looking at all the screens with the surveillance cameras. Most of them were of the flat and the pavement outside, but one of them was moving, like a bodycam. And then I saw you.

“At first I thought it was one of the guards, caught up with you, but you weren’t acting like you had been captured. I couldn’t hear except faint voices through someone’s headset, and I could hear your voice and a high voice. And I realized that the bodycam was on Maja. And while I was trying to figure out why she would have a bodycam, I saw...”

John swallowed again, and Sherlock could see a slight tremour in his hands. “You saw her shoot me.”

John nodded, his lips a thin, pale line. “I started shouting at the screen, I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t believe… Unfortunately that reminded them that I was there. They picked me up and threw me in a car, and took me to a jail somewhere. I didn’t even notice where they were taking me.”

Sherlock stood and pulled his shirt up to show the bandaging on his side. “Some blood loss, and I’ll have a scar, but no major organs. I was moving when she fired, so it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. I’m all right.”

“Thank God. I thought you were dead. How did you get away?”

Sherlock recounted his own flight through the park, and the tense standoff at the gate of the embassy. John was quiet while Sherlock told the story, and quiet for a long moment when he finished.

“Why did you bring her into the embassy with you?” John asked. His voice was flat, and he wasn’t looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed. He wasn’t sure if this would be easier if John was looking at him. “Well. I was angry she had deceived you, and I didn’t want her to go on doing so. I wasn’t sure of your situation, and I thought having her with me would give us more leverage to negotiate your release. Also… she had failed her mission, to capture or kill me, to get a confession from you. I wasn’t sure what she would face in Pavlović’s hands. And I was worried about…”

“… the baby,” John finished. “All true. Well reasoned, for a fellow who’d been recently shot.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said quietly. John had still not looked at him, and another question was hanging in the air. After a long, long moment, John licked his lips.

“The baby?” he said, quiet and small.

Sherlock wanted to take John’s hand, wanted to hold him, but was unsure of his welcome at this moment. “You asked her at the gate, didn’t you? I couldn’t hear.”

“Yes.”

“She laughed.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock sighed. “There’s no baby, John. There never was. She admitted as part of her confession that she had taken a drug during the time she was away to simulate pregnancy – make her breasts swell and so forth. She wanted… more leverage against you, wanted another reason for you to trust her.”

John was silent.

“She asked to be extradited, apparently. I had nothing to do with the negotiations, I swear, John. It was all Mycroft. He said that she’d rather take her chances with the Serbian government than be handed over to the UN. Mycroft didn’t tell the Serbs that, of course, but he got you back. He got you back, and I won’t apologize for that. I would have done anything to get you back. ”

John was still silent. Sherlock felt as though he was careening on the edge of a cliff, not sure whether he was falling forward or backwards. 

“I’m such a fool,” John whispered.

“No,” Sherlock said immediately.

“I fucked everything up. Everything, Sherlock. I fucked up my original mission, and James was killed. I tried to go to ground, and ended up marrying an international assassin who _absolutely_ knew who I was. I thought she loved me, and I tried to love her, I tried, and then she shot you and-”

Sherlock gave in to his instincts at last, and grabbed at John’s hands, holding them between his own. “You have not fucked up. You are not a fool. You’re the best man I’ve ever met. You saved me.”

“You got shot.”

“You didn’t pull the trigger. You didn’t know who she was.”

“But how could I _not know_?” John’s voice was agonized.

“You didn’t want to see, John,” Sherlock said softly. “You wanted to leave your old life behind and you didn’t want to see that in her.”

John said nothing, but Sherlock could see a tear sliding along the side of John’s nose. Sherlock squeezed his hands. “Besides, she’s the best liar I’ve ever met, and I work in _theatre_.”

John laughed, a bit wetly. Silence stretched out again, but this time it was not full of pain and anger, and swelled with potential.

“What happens now?” John said.

“We go home.”

“Where’s home?”

Sherlock could hear the fear and vulnerability in the question, the years of loneliness.

“With me,” he said.

 


	25. The Travelling Dancer

John’s head was practically out of the cab window the whole way home from Heathrow airport.

“John, you’re going to get your head taken off by a bus if you’re not careful,” Mrs. Hudson said.

“It’s built up so much since I was last here,” John said, his head still out the window. “All those cranes!”

Mycroft began to drone on about construction and rebuilding phases for the city of London, but Sherlock ignored them all, only drinking up the sight of John’s delight.

While Sherlock had been impatient to see the end of Belgrade, he had refused all offers to return until the doctor had deemed John well enough to travel. John slept nearly constantly for two days, then fidgeted his way through the doctor’s examination. When Dr. Bell sat back and nodded in satisfaction, John turned to Sherlock with raised eyebrows and a shy smile that took Sherlock’s breath away.

And after a flight that made Sherlock more nervous than he cared to admit, they were finally home.

The cab pulled up in front of Sherlock’s flat on Baker Street. John looked up at the glossy black door, the iron gates. “Westminster?” he said with a touch of awe.

“Where did you live when you were last in London?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“Not Westminster, that’s for bloody sure.”

They piled out of the cab, and John raised his eyebrows when Mrs. Hudson pulled out her small suitcase along with theirs.

“Mrs. Hudson lives here too,” Sherlock said. “In the downstairs flat. In fact she owns the building.”

“That’s why he keeps me as his manager,” Mrs. Hudson said. “If he goes to someone else, I’d make him move out, and he’s too lazy to look for another flat.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s true.”

His heart had swelled up at the sight of his home. He’d really only been away six weeks but it felt like years and years. He kissed Mrs. Hudson on the cheek to keep himself from dancing on the street.

“I’ll leave you to get settled, then,” Mycroft said.

John extended his hand to Mycroft. Mycroft blinked, and took it.

“Thank you,” John said. “Thank you for everything.”

“Just part of the job,” Mycroft said, but Sherlock knew he was pleased. “I’ll come by Monday morning for a full debriefing, if I may. We could also discuss your next assignment.”

“All right.”

John stepped back, and Sherlock moved to his brother. Mycroft lifted his hand to shake, but Sherlock raised his arms to embrace his brother for the first time since they were children. He heard Mycroft huff in surprise, but then Mycroft’s hands patted his back, briskly but with genuine feeling. They separated, and nodded briefly.

“Do call Mummy, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, and his voice was not as smooth as usual. “She did worry so.” He slid back into the car and drove away.

“Well,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m exhausted and want to sleep in my own bed tonight.”

Her nattering dialogue brought a sense of normalcy back to the moment. It was, for a moment, as though he hadn’t been away for weeks, as though he hadn’t been held against his will, as though he hadn’t been frightened out of his wits on more than one occasion. As though John had lived here for ages, as though he was not back in London for the first time in years, as though John had not been in a Serbian prison two days ago.

“Let me help with your case, Mrs. Hudson,” he said.

“Thank you dear, but there’s hardly a thing in it. They weren’t able to recover anything from the crash, you know. And I had that lovely blue dress packed then.”

“Off to the shops for you tomorrow,” Sherlock said. He remembered that the only clothes John had were the ones he was wearing, donated by a guard who was almost the same size and build as John. 

They got inside in a whirl of chatter, and before he realized it, Mrs. Hudson was settled in her own flat, and he and John were standing in the middle of Sherlock’s sitting room. John seemed suddenly tense and uncomfortable, and Sherlock wasn’t sure what to make of that.

“Tea?” he said. 

John hummed, short and sharp, and Sherlock put the kettle on. He started to put a tray together, then saw that the milk had gone off. Of course it had gone off, he’d been gone for weeks. He hastily dumped the milk down the sink, chasing it with hot water to drown the smell.

“No milk, sorry,” he said. He half laughed as he thought of something. “I – I just realized that I don’t know how you take your tea. Do you take-”

He stepped back into the sitting room, where John was still standing in the middle of the floor. John looked angry, and his fists were clenched.

“What’s the matter?” Sherlock asked softly.

“I was-” John said. He paused, and clenched his fist, and smiled in a way that Sherlock knew was not happiness. “I was checking for cameras.”

All the breath was sucked out of Sherlock’s lungs.

“The whole time I’ve known you – there’ve been cameras, and microphones, and guards and – now I’m realizing that there have been for months, _years_ , and now I can’t stop looking for them.”

John’s voice rose over the last few words, and when his voice broke, Sherlock’s paralysis broke as well. Without being aware of moving, he was suddenly in front of John, grabbing hard at his arms.

“There are no cameras now,” he hissed. “No microphones. No guards, no one watching every move we make, watching for a mistake. We are _home_ now. There are no mistakes to make. It’s just us here. I promise you, John.”

John’s eyes were wide and hard, but as he spoke, Sherlock saw comprehension sink into them. John’s hands came up and gripped at Sherlock’s biceps, almost painfully.

“Just us,” John rasped.

“Yes.”

“Nothing in the way anymore.”

“No.”

John blinked, then pulled Sherlock down for a bruising kiss. Arousal flared up in Sherlock’s whole body, and he returned the kiss with passion and desperation. They grappled in the middle of the sitting room floor for a moment, grasping at each other’s clothes in an effort to get even closer.

John pulled back a bit, then started a trail of sloppy, biting kisses along Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock held on to John, afraid he would melt away, and tilted his head back to allow better access.

“I want to make love to you,” John growled against Sherlock’s throat. “I want to undress you, and take my time to look over your whole body. I want to find out where the most sensitive parts of you are. I want to hear you moan, I want to make you scream. I want that, can I have that Sherlock? Let me do that.”

Heat poured over Sherlock in a wave, and for a moment he was afraid he would come right then. “Yes, John, fuck, yes.”

They manhandled each other down the hallway, Sherlock mostly leading the way but John pushing him along with his mouth and thighs. Sherlock’s jacket was wrestled off him and dumped just outside his bedroom door, and John’s shirt was mostly unbuttoned before they fell on the bed together. They grappled with each other’s clothes for a moment, until Sherlock got impatient and ripped his own shirt off, barely noticing the sound of buttons hitting the floor. John stood and stripped bare in mere seconds, then pulled off Sherlock’s trousers and pants, barely allowing Sherlock time to unbutton them.

John stopped for a moment, his chest heaving, cock bobbing against his belly. He stroked the palms of his hands down Sherlock’s body, from his collarbones down his stomach, across the sharpness of his hipbones and along the length of his legs.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re so beautiful. Your legs, my God. Your-” he paused, and blinked. “Your feet are… a mess. Did you run barefoot through rocks to get away?”

Sherlock peered down at the calluses and blisters that covered his feet. “They’ve always looked like that. All ballet dancers’ feet do.”

John knelt down, and kissed the tops of Sherlock’s feet. “Beautiful, like the rest of you,” he murmured, then trailed kisses like whispers trailed back up Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock nearly choked, gasping as John took him into his mouth.

“Fuck,” he whined softly, then bit the heel of his hand.

John released him with a slurp and a teasing lick around the crown of his cock. “No, no, let me hear you, let me hear the sounds you make,” he said, then swallowed him down again.

“Fuck,” Sherlock said again, muffled into his hand, then moved his hand away and gave into the keening sounds that threated to spill over.

He glanced down to see that John was holding the base of his cock with his right hand. His left had disappeared, but Sherlock could see from the shifting muscles in his arm what he was doing.

“Stop, stop,” he said, reaching down for John. “Come up here, please, please.”

John obeyed, sliding up and kissing Sherlock hard and deep. Sherlock could taste himself in John’s mouth, and he tilted his hips up to meet the pressure of John’s cock against his. 

“Like this?” John said. “Fuck, that feels amazing. You’re so amazing.”

“Fuck me,” Sherlock whined. He didn’t know how much he wanted it until the words came out. “I want – fuck – I want you to fuck me.”

John shuddered against Sherlock’s body. “Oh God,” he said. “Are you – sure? I mean, I want to but, do you, are you…”

“Yes,” Sherlock hissed. He reached down and grabbed John’s arse in both hands, kneading and scratching at the skin and muscles he found there. “I want you inside me. I want you to fuck me. This is your home, I am your home. Come home inside me.”

“God,” John said. “Yeah, I want to fuck you, I want all that. Do you – oh _Christ_ – do you have any lube?”

Sherlock reached out and opened his bedside drawer, fumbling inside it until he found the tube. “Give me your hand.”

John wordlessly extended his hand, and Sherlock’s hands were shaking as much as John’s as he carefully coated John’s fingers with the cool and slippery lube. “I love your hands,” Sherlock said. “I love you. Please. Get me ready for you.”

He lay back in the bed, and John rolled off to lie beside him, nuzzling at his cheek and neck, thrusting gently against his thigh. “Talk to me,” John whispered. “Tell me if it hurts, tell me what you need, when you need it.”

“I need-” Sherlock said, but John was already there, his fingers softly tracing around his hole, dipping in, effortless with the lube. He gasped with relief and pleasure mixed together. “Perfect. Perfect. You’re – more please.”

John was gentle but not so gentle as to make Sherlock impatient. Soon he had three fingers knuckle deep inside, and Sherlock’s hands were scrabbling at John’s shoulders. He pulled at John until John was forced to pull his hand away, then rolled back on top of Sherlock’s body again.

“Like this?” John said. “Can I fuck you like this? I want to see your face. I want to see you as I fuck you, want to make you scream out.”

Sherlock was already reaching down, pulling John’s cock toward him. “Yes,” he said, “see me, fuck me, come home.”

John slid in, slow, but fast and deep enough to make Sherlock gasp.

“All right?” John whispered.

“All right, just – stay here, just a moment.”

“Yeah,” John said, and his voice was steady, even though Sherlock could feel every one of his muscles quivering with restraint. His hand shook as he stroked Sherlock’s thighs, soothing but eager.

Sherlock could feel his muscles loosening, letting John in. He looked up at John and was amazed at his expression: love, affection, lust, bemusement, all mixed together.

“Ever fucked a dancer before?” Sherlock said.

John blinked. “No,” he said, confusion marring his face.

Sherlock laid his hands over John’s, guiding them down to his knees. “One of the benefits of fucking a ballet dancer, John,” he said, “is that we are very, very flexible.”

He pulled back on his knees, John following, until his legs were tilted almost all the way back, and he was bent nearly double. The flush across John’s chest and neck deepened.

“Oh, I see,” John said, and his voice was strangled with humour and arousal. He started to thrust, small and shallow. “But when you are being fucked by a tap dancer, Sherlock,” and the thrusts became sharper and harder, and Sherlock gasped, “you will find that they are good at hitting,” another hard thrust and John hit Sherlock’s prostate, “very specific spots,” another hit on the prostate and Sherlock saw stars, “over - and - over - again.”

Everything descended into white noise. Sherlock knew nothing except for the feel of John inside him, John’s hands on his body, all of his skin sparking with electricity. He was dimly aware of shouting, and knew that he couldn’t stop the noise he was making even if he tried. John’s face was red and beaded with sweat, he was grunting with every push, and there was a deep line of concentration between his brows. But through it all his eyes stayed locked with Sherlock’s, connecting and connected. Sherlock pulled John’s head down to his, tried to kiss him but instead found himself crying out against John’s mouth as he came over his chest and belly. John’s grunts vocalized, and then he was shouting and pouring himself deep into Sherlock.

The next thing Sherlock was cognizant of was clearly a few minutes later, and John was curled around Sherlock’s side, breathing hard against his neck, and his cock softening against Sherlock’s hip.

“I don’t think I need the Serbian secret service to kill me,” John panted. “Think you’re going to manage it just fine on your own.”

Sherlock laughed though his own heaving breath. “Mutual,” he managed.

They kissed as they calmed, John running his fingertips through the come on his chest. “Want me to get a flannel?”

“Don’t you dare,” Sherlock said. “At least, not yet.”

They were quiet for a while, their breath slowing in tandem.

“Did you mean that?” John said quietly.

“Mean what?”

“About home. About me coming home to you. About living – here. With you.”

Sherlock turned his head to look into John’s eyes. “I did. Of course I did.”

“You want me to live here with you?”

“I do.” Sherlock frowned. “Do you? Want to live here with me?”

John smiled, slow and soft. “I do. Yeah, I do.”

“Good.” Sherlock laid back again and closed his eyes. “Though there is a second bedroom if you like.”

“Ah. We didn’t really finish the tour, did we.”

“You distracted me. And I say second bedroom, but it’s really a rehearsal space.”

“Why do you call it a bedroom then, if there’s no bed?”

“There are floor mats.”

“Comfy. I guess I’d better stay in your bed then.”

Sherlock put his arms around John, and John’s arms wrapped around him. “I suppose you’d better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter after this... a bit of an epilogue.


	26. Alice in Wonderland

When Sherlock opened his eyes, the room was beginning to fill with morning sunlight. He stretched, and realized that John must have cleaned him up as he slept, judging from the lack of stickiness pulling at his skin and chest hair.

He turned his head and saw John, propped up on his hand, gazing at him. He grinned, and John smiled back. They kissed, quiet and languid.

“Did you sleep?” Sherlock said.

“A bit.” John shrugged. “This all doesn’t seem… quite real yet. My brain’s still spinning.”

“Spinning how? With what?”

John leaned back against the headboard. “Well, what do I do now? Don’t get me wrong,” he said, tracing Sherlock’s lips with a fingertip, “I’m glad to be here, with you. Grateful for a home. But not sure what after that.”

“As in, work?”

“Well, yes. I’m not really the type to be kept.”

“Hm. Well, my brother did want to talk to you about a debriefing, and perhaps doing some one-off assignments. You are still MI6, I believe. Or at least you could be, as soon as your ‘missing, presumed dead’ status is corrected.”

“Yessss,” John said thoughtfully. “But I think I want to stay in England for a bit.”

“Me too,” Sherlock said. “I was actually thinking about talking to Mrs. Hudson about delaying my next tour – perhaps indefinitely. Not too keen on long flights anymore, to be honest.”

“Fair enough.” John scratched his eyebrow. “I suppose I could – requalify for my medical certification, get a job at a clinic somewhere.”

“Please. John Watson, dealing with idiots with the sniffles and carpal tunnel? You’ll be bored silly. You’re meant for greater things than that.”

John stared at him, then laughed a bit and shook his head.

“What?”

“I’m just,” John said, rubbing his hand through his hair, “just not used to that.”

“Used to what?”

“Being told that. Someone believing that – that I’m-”

Sherlock stared. “That you’re not amazing? Brilliant? Sexy as hell?” John’s blush told him everything. “It’s true, all of it.” He took John’s hand into his, forcing him to look into his eyes. “I saw right from the beginning, the day I arrived at your house, that she was scornful of you, had no respect for you. It took me a while to trust you, but once I did, I could see how amazing you are. It makes me furious that she treated you like that, made you think so little of yourself.”

“She never loved me,” John said quietly. “I know that now. Even at the beginning, when we first met, it was all a front. After we were married, she barely hid it anymore. I can see that. I didn’t want to, but now I do.”

Sherlock kissed John’s hand, and then his face. “I don’t want you to feel like that again. You are… what’s that song again? A lionheart.”

John laughed, a bit wetly. “And you’re amazing to me too.”

They kissed, and Sherlock’s heart and mind were overflowing with love for this man, who had survived so much, and was now here, with him.

After a while, they lay back, gazing into each other’s eyes, carding their hands through each other’s hair.

“You know what you remind me of?” John said softly.

“Hm?” Sherlock said dreamily. He loved the feel of John’s fingers in his hair.

“Did you read Alice in Wonderland, when you were a kid?”

“I think so. I remember my mother wanted me to read it, she said it was full of math riddles.”

“Yeah, it is, actually. But I was thinking just now of the Caterpillar.”

“Was he a math riddle?”

“Sort of. He told Alice that one side of the mushroom would make you grow, and the other side would make you shrink. And she ate the wrong side first, and shrank so much that her chin banged on her foot. Then she ate from the other side until she was the height she wanted to be. And I was just thinking that Maja was the wrong side of the mushroom for me, see? She made me feel small. And you’re the… what?”

Sherlock had sat up abruptly in bed. “Say that again.”

“…The right side of the mushroom? Sherlock?”

“That’s brilliant, John,” Sherlock breathed.

“What is?” John said, confusion knotting his forehead.

Sherlock got out of bed. “Alice in Wonderland. All those characters, and Alice growing and shrinking.” He ran to his dresser and pulled on a pair of soft leggings and a singlet. “Where are my ballet shoes? Come on, John, get dressed. It’s all math, Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll was a mathematician, but so is ballet! It’s all numbers, and angles, and physics. So is tap, isn’t it? You’ll have to show me. Hurry, John. Oh. You don’t have – all right, here’s a pair of running trousers, you can roll them up. Your regular shoes will have to do.”

He dragged John, spluttering and half dressed, up the stairs to the rehearsal space he had created in the upper room.

“Lots to be done, John. When the shops open we’ll go down to Bloch’s in Soho and get you some new tap shoes. And I need more too, those were my favourite pair I had to leave behind in Belgrade. And we’ll get you clothes as well. Then I’ll call the Royal and start putting together a proposal. See if we can get Bob Crowley involved to do the design.”

“Would you please explain, using full sentences, please? What are you on about?”

Sherlock turned to face him. The room was flooded with light, reflecting back against the mirrors and the pale wooden floor. He loved this room, and now John was in it.

“We’re going to create a ballet. A new one.”

John stared at him, his jaw dropping. “And how do we do that?” he said.

Sherlock looked at John. He was a bit ridiculous, with too-long trousers rolled up, his street shoes, a vest, and his hair was a ruffled disaster. And yet he belonged here in Sherlock’s rehearsal room, the first person he had allowed inside. He belonged here.

“We begin at the beginning, John,” Sherlock said. “With warm up. It’s a new day.”

Confusion cleared from John’s face, and he grinned. “You’re a madman.”

“We’re all mad here,” Sherlock said.

“Now you’re the Cheshire Cat, not the Caterpillar,” John said. “Shall I start?”

“Yes. One, two, three, four-”

**

“Fifteen minutes, please, ladies and gentlemen, fifteen minutes.”

The chaos in the dressing room area magnified by another degree. Dressers rushed past with racks of costumes, brushing past dancers stretching out in the hallway.

Sherlock scanned the tide of people in the hallway until he caught sight of the stage manager, dressed all in black in the centre of a riot of colour. “Stephanie! Did you get the new light for Act Two?”

“We did, Mr. Holmes, tested it this afternoon, it looks fantastic.”

“Excellent. Don’t worry too much about that transition into scene three, you nailed it at the dress.”

“Thank you. It’s a tricky one, but I think I’ve got it now.”

“Off you go, then. Chuckers.”

“Chuckers.”

“Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock turned to see Michael, already in his dormouse costume. “Yes?”

“The _enchainement_ in scene fourteen…”

“Show me.”

Michael ran through a series of steps, while Sherlock watched carefully. “Yes, that’s it, you’ve got it. Just watch that you’ve got your ankle turned out properly.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock looked around, and saw that no one else seemed to want his attention at the moment. He made his way down the hall, tapped softly at a door and let himself in.

John was pacing back and forth, his face pale. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

Sherlock found himself unable to take his eyes off John’s costume. “You look amazing.”

“I look mad.”

“Appropriate, as you’re playing the Mad Hatter. God, your legs look a mile long in those trousers.”

John grinned a bit, colour returning slowly to his face. He looked at Sherlock, who was still wearing his backstage wrap. “Let me see.”

“You saw at the costume parade.”

“I want to see again.”

Sherlock sighed, but only for show, and he untied his wrap and let it fall.

“Jesus.” John’s voice was hushed and worshipful. “Please tell me we can keep the costume after the run is over.”

Sherlock ran his hands over the gauzy blue fabric of the Arabian style loose pants, a gold belt sitting low on his hips. “Bob is a brilliant designer.”

“I’m glad you decided to go shirtless. This looks…” John’s voice trailed away, and he traced a finger along the edge of the waistline, fingertips brushing the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s lower belly. 

“They’ve set up a closed circuit in my dressing room, so I can… I can watch the first act while… oh, while Amy does the body paint… God damn it, John, you’re making me hard, and that _hurts_ when I’m wearing a dance belt.”

“Sorry,” John said, and reluctantly pulled his hand away.

“No you’re not.”

“No I’m not.” John looked at himself in the mirror, and shook his head again. “I can’t believe I’m about to dance at the Royal. They’re going to laugh me off the stage. They came to see a ballet, and Sherlock bloody Holmes talked me into tap dancing in the middle of it.”

Sherlock came up from behind him, and put his arms around his waist. “You’ll be brilliant. I already know you are, I just want everyone else to see.”

John turned in his arms, and they kissed, mindful of their stage makeup, but with no less passion for being careful.

“ _Ow_.”

“Sorry, love,” John smirked.

“You are not.”

The tannoy whined into life. “Five minutes, please, ladies and gentlemen. Places for Ms Asbil, Ms Buchanan, Ms Davies, Ms Henson, Ms Coghlan, and Mr Reynolds. Warning for Mr King, Mr Shah, and Mr Watson.”

John turned out of Sherlock’s arms, and picked up his comically large hat, with “10/6” on the side. “I’d better go up.”

“I’ll be watching from stage left. They’ll love you. I love you.”

John kissed him once more, whispered, “Thank you. I love you too.” Then he straightened his back, lifted his chin, and walked out the door.

Sherlock smiled at the door, then picked up his wrap and pulled it on again. Walking as quickly and quietly as he could in his ballet slippers, he made his way to the backstage. He took up a position next to Stephanie, her headset already on. She nodded briefly at him, then returned her attention to the prompt book.

He could hear the hurried whispers of the dancers as they ground their feet into the resin box, could hear the orchestra tuning to A.

“House to half,” Stephanie murmured into the headset. “House out. Beginners, go. Lights one, go.”

The stage went dark and backstage was lit only by dim blue light. Everyone went quiet.

“Curtain, go.”

Sherlock smiled into the dark.

Nothing like it in the world.

 

End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic came about when I re-watched White Nights, and then a week later saw the Royal Opera’s Alice in Wonderland, which is the production referenced in the final chapter.  
> Here’s the Mad Hatter scene, with John taking Steven McRae’s role: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kq8zqhqjUIo&list=PL5qf7zxCk2JBzIwfMCiRgY8UOA0ExQq77&index=13&t=0s  
> And Sherlock taking Eric Underwood’s role as the Caterpillar: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gOiK2G88sbw&list=PL5qf7zxCk2JBzIwfMCiRgY8UOA0ExQq77&index=13 (Those harem pants OMFG)  
> If you’re a ballet fan, this production is worth seeking out.  
> “Chuckers” is the ballet equivalent of “break a leg”.
> 
> Huge thanks to my betas, besina and shamelessmash, who helped immensely, emotionally and practically, by alternately challenging me and squeeing at me. Thank you as well to @weneedtotalkaboutsherlock, who did a beautiful cover art for this fic, but I haven't figured out how to attach it yet!
> 
> And thank you to everyone who followed along, left a comment, or clicked Kudos. I am grateful!


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